Contrition
by Aeschylus Rex
Summary: Faith returns to Cleveland after a long hiatus to help a sick, and weary Buffy fight back against a psychotically disturbed demon hybrid. Her welcome is chilly at best.
1. Welcome (back) to Cleveland

_Hey, thanks for reading. This is my first time posting a fanfic so please be gentle. _

_M - sex, violence, sexy violence, language, etc. _

_Enjoy..._

_A. Rex_

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><p><strong>1. Welcome (back) to Cleveland<strong>

It was late when she arrived, a dark, slouched figure climbing up off the frigid, windswept streets, nodding curtly to Dawn at the front door. The house was an old, remodeled Cleveland double, two and a half stories with a broad, shallow porch and low roof supported by stubby columns. A half-level stone facade wrapped around its base, and the plain wood siding was painted an ash grey color with white trim. Faith kicked the snow off her boots as she tromped over the threshold, closing the heavy, red door behind her. A wood fire flickered in the front room, where a small, familiar body lay asleep, curled up at the far end of an oversized sectional couch. Blonde hair spilled out beneath a purple quilt. A movie played quietly on the television. Light and color flashed from the screen, illuminating the furniture, the pictures on the walls, built-in bookshelves crammed with grotty, yellowing tomes, ceramic urns, and jars of dried herbs. The floors were original hardwood, made of wide oak planks that creaked underfoot, and the rooms were lined, top and bottom, with elegant, white moulding. Even the square, paned windows along the front of the house held an antiquated appeal. It was a nice place.

Willow materialized behind Dawn as Faith dropped her duffle bag in the entryway.

"You're here."

Brown eyes flicked to the redhead. "Yeah. You rang."

"Yes, but you're actually here," Willow said again, with more emphasis.

The slayer turned away and began to pull off her boots. "No shit."

"We didn't think that you would come," Giles admitted, emerging from the kitchen in a wooly grey bathrobe.

Faith tugged off her beanie and brushed a lock of hair out of her sunburned face. "If you didn't think I would come, why bother asking?"

"They're desperate," Dawn said drily, examining her nails.

"We're not desperate," Willow flushed. She turned to Faith. "We're not desperate."

Dawn shrugged and wandered over to the living room, taking up watch beside her sister on the couch. She was taller, and lankier than she had been in Sunnydale. Her face had lost most of its roundness and innocence. Dawn pulled her legs up to her chest and wrapped her arms around her knees. Buffy did not stir.

"How is she?" Faith asked. Her voice and expression were flat, her dark eyes, unreadable.

Giles shook his head and beckoned them into the kitchen. Willow seated herself at the table across from Faith, pulling her cardigan tighter around her shoulders. The circles beneath her eyes were heavy and dark. Her bright red hair was limp. Even her skin was pale. Giles busied himself making tea, filling a kettle with water and setting it on the stove. Nobody spoke. He returned to the table several minutes later carrying three porcelain mugs and a plate of gingersnaps. Faith waited until everyone had fixed their drinks with the preferred amounts of milk and sugar before daring to speak again.

"How is she?"

"Not well," the watcher admitted, and Willow bowed her head. "She's sick and exhausted, and completely discouraged."

Faith chewed her lip. "Worse than Sunnydale?"

"Yes," he sighed. "About that bad."

"Guys," the brunette glanced sharply between them, "what the fuck is going on?"

With a heavy sigh, Giles removed his glasses and rubbed his tired eyes. "Kennedy found the entrance to a tunnel on patrol one night about three weeks ago. It was located under a dumpster behind a bar that is rather notorious for attracting demonic customers. None of us had any idea where it led or who had built it, so Buffy took a team with her to gather intelligence." He paused.

"What did they find?"

"The tunnels led to a super portal."

"Where?"

"In a cavern under Monroe Cemetery."

"And?"

Willow glanced furtively at Giles, who seemed either unwilling or unable to speak, before venturing a quiet response. "Buffy turned up three days later in the hospital with some cuts and bruises. The others never made it home."

Faith was accustomed to casualties and death, but the grief-stricken expression on the witch's face unnerved her. She twisted a lock of dark hair between her fingers and sat in silence with the others for a moment.

"All we know is what Buffy could tell us," Willow continued at last. "They were taken and used for rituals...to open the portal."

"By who?"

"We don't know for sure. Buffy called him 'the dreamcatcher', but she doesn't remember very much."

"Is he a vampire…? Or…?"

"The dreamcatcher is a man, and I am very much hoping that Buffy found something other than what I'm thinking she did."

"Ominous, G. Go on."

Giles clasped his hands and sighed. "I've read about a man called the dreamcatcher before. He was a murderer being held for trial in London in the mid 18th century. A cult of warlocks took him before he could be hanged and performed a ritual similar to the one that created the first slayer. They were hoping to imbue him with the spirit of a hell god. They wanted to fashion him into a creature they called the 'anti-slayer'. Naturally, of course, the ritual didn't work. The man's soul rejected the hell god's essence, and they were left with an immensely powerful, psychologically fractured abomination that answered to no one and killed indiscriminately. They imprisoned him in a hell dimension, and well, if Buffy's memory is to be trusted, it seems that the vampires who captured the slayers used the girls' blood to summon him through the portal."

"How did Buffy escape?"

"Sheer luck, really. The vampire cultists had saved her as a meal for their new master, anticipating that he would be hungry when he emerged from the portal. Evidently, this dreamcatcher fellow can feed on human flesh. However, when the dreamcatcher came through the portal he flew into a rage and began attacking the vampire cultists. It is common for demons trapped in hell dimensions to develop feral, animalistic qualities."

"Sure."

Giles straightened his spectacles and cleared his throat. "In the middle of all the chaos, the cavern wall, to which Buffy was shackled, cracked. She was able to rip the chains free and escape through the tunnels unnoticed amidst all the commotion, but she was delirious when she reached the surface, and wandered into the middle of a busy street, where she was nearly struck by a passing car."

"And that's how she ended up in the hospital."

"Yes."

Faith chewed on her lip for a moment. "Did this...dreamcatcher guy, have a name?"

"Christopher Abbott. Although, after centuries of torture in a hell dimension, I'm not sure that he would answer to it anymore."

"Hm." The slayer frowned. "I guess I expected something that sounded a little more evil."

"The name 'Faith' doesn't exactly register on the chart of evilness, either," Willow said snidely, glowering from across the table.

Faith curled her lip contemptuously. "Tell me, Red, on a scale of one to ten, how satisfying is it to skin people alive?"

Willow glowered and fell silent.

"Moving on," Faith clasped her hands, "do we know what kinds of plans these assholes have for the thriving metropolis of Cleveland?"

Giles offered her a wan smile. "To put these people out of their misery, perhaps."

"It can't be that bad."

"I advise you not to stop in east Cleveland for any reason."

"That includes traffic signs," Willow supplied seriously.

"Okay," Faith drawled, "so, in other words, we have a group of cultist vampire on the loose, and no idea why they're here or what they're up to, except that they are capable of taking out several slayers at a time. And all of this without considering the impact that a psychotic hell god trapped in an 18th century murderer's body will have on the fight. Did I miss anything?"

"No," Giles shook his head wearily, looking for all the world like he need a long vacation, "that just about covers it."

"Hm, great," Faith grumbled. She leaned back in the creaky wooden chair and crossed her arms. "Where's Kennedy?"

"Out on patrol." He checked his watch. "She'll be back in an hour."

"Who else is stationed here besides Ken and Buffy?"

"Just us. None of the other girls survived the initial attack, and we haven't sent for reinforcements."

"There's another witch staying with us," Willow interjected. "She's helping me out with the magic stuff, but it's too risky to keep young, inexperienced slayers around. This dreamcatcher guy likes to play with his food."

"Has he caught any more girls?"

"Just civilians," the watcher corrected, stroking the short, silver beard growing in around his chin. "The Cleveland PD are completely perplexed by the sudden rash of brutal murders that have taken place across the city. Bodies eviscerated, discarded haphazardly, with no apparent motive. They're trying to keep it under wraps, but a team of FBI agents arrived in town yesterday. The commissioner isn't taking any chances."

Fantastic." Faith grimaced. "Everyone from here to Cincinnati will be a blind panic by next week."

"We have no reason to expect otherwise."

A thoughtful expression appeared on her face. "So… what am I doing here?"

The watcher adjusted his glasses. "Beg your pardon?"

"I know I'm a veteran, G, but why not call Vi or Rhona? They're both in New York. I had to catch a 16 hour flight from Singapore just to get here."

"Oh, I see. Well, none of the other cells can spare a veteran at the moment, and you had just finished up another assignment, so you seemed like the most obvious choice."

"Sure, yeah…"

Faith drummed her fingers on the table and glanced around the room. She got the distinct impression that they were keeping something from her, something important, but she wasn't sure how to broach the subject tactfully. Everybody in the house seemed brittle, like they were made of glass, like the First was back in town again, and she was back in Joyce's old home on Revello Drive, trying not to step on Buffy's toes while did whatever she could to hold them all together.

Light flickering from the television in the living room caught her eye, reminding her of something the watcher had mentioned on the phone. "What exactly is wrong with Buffy?"

Giles and Willow exchanged nervous glances.

"We don't know," the watcher said at last. "Slayers aren't technically supposed to get sick."

"Which is to say, we've never heard of one getting sick," Willow added, "but that doesn't mean they can't. Our experience with slayer physiology is kind of limited."

"It's not mystical?"

"We ruled that out pretty early on. The doctors diagnosed her with pneumonia. I think she actually has pneumonia."

The slayer shrugged. "Okay, well, shit. I guess stranger things have happened."

Willow rolled her eyes. "Nothing phases you, does it?"

Her eyes flicked back to the exasperated witch, narrowing imperceptibly. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"Like, do you actually give a shit about anything?"

"Some things," the brunette growled.

Willow gestured around at the room. "I ask because you seem like you could honestly care less whether you're working for a snake demon or helping us out, so long as you 'get some and get gone', or whatever the hell you say."

"Harsh words, Red," Faith leaned forward over the table, lips curling. "None of the others wanted to come, did they? No one else wants to deal with stressed out, stick-up-her-ass Buffy, but you knew I would get on a plane, no questions asked. That's why I'm here, right?"

The irked glare on Willow's face as good as answered the question.

Giles stood suddenly and began collecting their mugs. "You must be exhausted, Faith."

"God, yes." She cracked her neck.

"We've set up a cot for you in the study. I'll give you the tour."

Faith retrieved her bag from the entryway and cast a long, appraising look at Buffy, curled up on the couch next to her sister, before turning to follow the watcher down the hall.

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><p><em>Thanks again. More soon...<em>


	2. Punching Bag

**2. Punching Bag**

It was rare that Buffy slept through the night anymore. Whether she was roused by the incessant coughing or by the nightmares, she was lucky to rest for more than a few hours at a time without being disturbed. She was not the resilient, agile teenaged slayer she had once been, staking vampires well after midnight, rising early for the class the next morning. A heavy, binding weariness had seeped into her bones, and no amount of febrile sleep could dispel her exhaustion. Tonight was no different. She coughed until she woke herself up, wrapped like a cocoon in one of the old, spare quilts. The room was dark and cold. The fire had long since burned itself out, and someone had shut the grate. Her back was stiff from sleeping on the couch all week, and when she moved she could hear the vertebrae popping along the length of her spine.

Buffy moved her body carefully into a sitting position, wheezing a bit, and peered out the double-paned window over the back of the couch. Giles always left the porch light on, because, as he so often reminded them, not everybody in the house had slayer vision. Soft, white snowflakes wafted down from a steel grey sky, tinged orange from city lights. The weather was shaping up to bring them another white Christmas. After two decades in the sun-drenched valleys of California, Buffy was still awed by the novelty of it.

A door opened in the hallway and Buffy became aware of light footsteps, padding to the cabinet by the kitchen sink to retrieve a glass, turning on the faucet, filling it up. She rose up off the cushions on stiff, aching legs, and, wrapping the quilt tight around herself, shuffled across the dark room expecting to find Kennedy in from patrol.

Buffy leaned up against the doorway in the kitchen, stifling another yawn.

"You're in late." Her voice was uncharacteristically hoarse.

The dark figure turned and froze. "Shit. I didn't mean to wake you up."

Buffy straightened up immediately and reached for the switch. Bright light washed over them both, blinking and squinting at each other across the room.

"Faith?"

"Hey." The brunette managed a small, sheepish wave.

"What are you doing in my kitchen?"

"Getting a glass of water."

"No, I mean," Buffy made an exasperated noise, "what are you doing here?"

"Oh, I was invited."

"By who?"

"Giles."

"Oh my god, you're the veteran slayer that's helping us out." Buffy groaned, burying her head in the quilt. "I should've known."

Faith frowned. "He didn't tell you?"

The blonde coughed and sniffled. "Obviously not."

"Figures." Faith drained the rest of her glass and went to fill it up again.

The embattled slayer was just as nonchalant as she had always been in tense situations, but there were marked differences now. It didn't seem forced. Her limbs were loose and limber, her movements more graceful, more fluid. It made Buffy even more aware of the sickness in her own body, the fatigue, the strain, the thick, viscous bog in her lungs.

"Why are you here?" she asked, eyes narrowed.

"Giles said you needed help."

"It's been years, Faith. You haven't been back here in years."

Faith, who was inspecting something in her glass, just shrugged. "Yeah, I've been busy."

"Busy doing what?" Buffy shook herself and held up a hand. "Never mind. I don't care. I just want to know what the hell you're doing here now."

"Helping."

Buffy scoffed. "Helpful is not a word I would use to describe you. What are you really doing here?"

The brunette glanced at her sharply. "Four years, B. That's how long I've been gone."

"Yeah, I can count, thanks."

"Before that I was in prison for three years."

"And?"

"You've had seven years to get over the shit I did in high school," Faith retorted, clearly annoyed. "I'm not 16 anymore. I haven't been that girl in a long fucking time, but you still act like we're teenagers, like you know fuck all about me. Which, you don't. Not that you give a shit."

"I know enough," Buffy snapped. "Some things never change."

The look Faith leveled at her was loaded with contempt. "Everyone else dealt with it and moved on. Everyone else was willing to put the past in the past and forgive me."

"Not everyone! Not Willow!"

"Willow treats me like an adult," Faith snapped. "We can at least be civil with one another, but you just wanna be mad, B. You just want a punching bag to wail on when things get shitty. That's why none of the others wanted to come out here. I was the only one willing to get on a plane and fly out to fucking Cleveland, 'cause I'm the only one who's still willing to take the abuse. Well, guess what?" Faith slammed her glass down on the counter. "This is the last time I do you a fucking favor. I've been traveling around the world for years trying to prove I'm committed to the cause, but somehow it'll just never be enough for you. You'll never see me as anything but a fucked up 15 year old runaway, working for a demon 'cause he's the closest thing she has to a real family."

"Faith..."

"No, I'm through." She turned on her heel and headed for the hall. "I've fucking had it with your self-righteous bullshit."

Buffy growled and chased after her. "So, what? You're just gonna check out again once we get the bad guy?"

The dark slayer didn't bother turning back around as she responded. "Pretty much."

"Why do you always do that?" Buffy followed her into the study, where a camping cot and sleeping bag had been set up next to an old radiator. "Why do you always leave when things get rough?"

"I don't."

"You do!" the blonde insisted, grabbing the cuff of Faith's sweater and pulling her around. "You always bail!"

Faith had a sharp rebuke ready, but she hesitated. She looked off to side, tugging her lip between her teeth. The old, familiar tension had returned in her shoulders, like she was a caged animal. Her dark eyes were hard.

"What do I have to stay for?" Her voice was distant. She wouldn't meet Buffy's gaze. "You don't want me here."

The elder slayer had no answer to that, to Faith's honesty. She was struck speechless.

"We were never destined to be on Earth at the same time," Faith said. "Maybe we just weren't meant to get along."

Buffy released Faith's sleeve, arm dropping to her side. She was already tired again, wheezing a little. The urge to cough was growing.

"I'm going back to bed," Faith said pointedly, flopping down on the sleeping bag. "I'd love to stay up and argue some more, but I just spent 16 hours on a plane and I need to crash. You can yell at me in the morning."

Buffy stalled for a moment, eyes fixed on her sister slayer's hard expression. Then, wordlessly, she turned and left the room.

Sleep was a lost cause. It was a real struggle not to put her fist through a wall.

Four years.

Four years.

"Four fucking years and she turns up acting all cool and nonchalant, like it's our monthly lunch date or something." Buffy descended the basement stairs, muttering angrily under her breath. "More like our monthly _punch_ date."

She rolled her eyes at her own bad joke, reaching for the bare switch panel. Xander had never bothered to replace it after he finished the remodel. Dim, yellow light illuminated the sprawling, concrete basement. The ceiling was low, and the floor always retained a damp, clammy chill on Buffy's feet, even in the middle of summer. It was cleaner than her mother's old basement in Sunnydale, and, in addition to a set of extra storage shelves along the far wall, Xander had been kind enough to help her install a training space in the corner. She wiggled her toes as she stepped onto the crash mat and squared up to the weathered, red punching bag hanging from the ceiling. She considered taping her knuckles and dismissed the idea. No doubt her skin would be softer. No doubt she would bleed.

No matter.

Buffy clenched her teeth, heaved a deep breath, coughed a little, and dropped into a boxing stance. Who did Faith think she was? The brunette's words always got under her skin, and they always made her so angry, so unreasonably mad. Like she was some kind of psycho with an explosive temper. Buffy launched a hard right hook. The bag shuddered and recoiled. The chains rattled, clinking like angry little bells overhead. Faith knew just what to say, knew how to rile her up. Buffy threw another hard punch, this time with her left. The bag jumped away from her and swung back like a pendulum, ready to meet her next strike. The blonde obliged with a spine-snapping two handed blow that would have killed any mortal on contact. Fire flickered in her eyes, even as she struggled not to cough, ignored her stiff muscles, gasped for air like she'd already run five miles. With a roar of frustration Buffy rained down bone-crushing blows, pummeling the bag with everything she could summon, carrying on until she was exhausted, and then pushing through it until she crumpled onto the mat wheezing.

Tears mingled with salt and sweat, trickling down her cheeks, dripping from her chin. A ragged sob rose in her throat, and Buffy covered her mouth with shaking hands, kneeling forward until her forehead hit the crash mat. Like a prayer. She stayed until her shoulders stilled. She stayed until the wild feelings left her.


	3. The Dreamcatcher

_Trigger warning! I'm serious, there's potentially traumatic content in this chapter. Sexual violence, etc._

_Again, thanks for reading..._

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><p><strong>3. The Dreamcatcher<strong>

Kennedy and Faith took over patrol while Buffy recovered from her sudden, mysterious relapse of pneumonia-induced exhaustion. Though it was decided upon unanimously by the rest of the group, Faith was surprised when the blonde didn't beg Giles to let her go out. She was even more surprised when Buffy didn't needle her about her drinking habits, or her clubbing habits, or even her smoking habits. No mention of the vodka in the fridge. Not a word about the condom wrapper that fell out of her pocket. No dirty looks or muttered grievances. Nothing. And it was profoundly disconcerting. In fact, there were a lot of details about Buffy's recent behavior that were disconcerting. After their initial argument, Buffy had made a point to ignore the younger slayer almost completely, which wasn't unusual, but she had been particularly distant from the rest of her friends as well. Only Dawn had been able to coax intelligible conversation out of her sister, and it was curt and short, as though each word were uttered with great effort. She spent most of her time coughing and wheezing, alternating between sleeping and staring at the TV, ostensibly catatonic. When she did move about the house, however, she was irritable and easily startled, jumping at the slightest sounds, dodging glances, arms folded like a shield across her chest. It had Faith rattled. She had seen the thousand yard stare on plenty of faces before, but never on Buffy's.

The tension showed in her expression late one evening, almost a week into her stay, crunching along on an icy sidewalk next to Kennedy. Cleveland was quiet and foggy. The vampires were keeping their heads down, which was just as well, since the two slayers had resorted to applying adhesive to their gloves just to help their cold fingers grip the stakes. Faith's shoulders were slumped forward in her puffy coat, eyes dark and downcast beneath the brim of her wool hat. She was brooding, something she did quite often, something that, to the old scoobies, seemed as natural to her persona as her wild, brown hair. But Kennedy was not, and never would be, one of the original scoobies, and she took a genuine interest in Faith's somber mood, watching her openly as they trudged along, hopping the fence into another cemetery, slogging through another field of crusty, shin-deep snow. When they had circled the property twice in silence, finding nothing but an empty grave and a freaked out newbie, who panicked and ran straight from Faith's stake into the pointy end of Kennedy's, the two slayers settled down on a couple of flat-topped headstones for a break. Faith pulled a crushed cardboard packet from her coat pocket and offered a cigarette to Kennedy, who nodded and stretched out her hand. Faith lit up, passed the lighter, and exhaled, watching the smoke drift up to join the freezing fog hanging over the trees.

She heard Kennedy fumbling with her gloves, and then the sharp click of metal, a brief flash of orange light illuminating the names etched in the stones around them.

"This job is morbid," Kennedy grumbled softly, glancing around. "I spend more time in cemeteries than I do in Willow."

"Classy," Faith snorted, blowing smoke through her nose. "You're subtle as fuck."

"What? Five years together and I still get laid." Kennedy smirked. "I should throw a party. That's a pretty big deal for us gay-bos."

"You want an award or something? Jeez."

"Hey!" Kennedy answered with an indignant shove. "Lesbian bed death is a real thing! I get to be proud of us, and you get to shut up!"

Faith just snickered. "Okay, whatever, but I'm getting you a vagina trophy."

"Fine. I'll mount it over my fucking fireplace."

"Yeah? You gonna show it off to your dinner guests?"

"Absolutely."

Faith tapped her filter and let some of the ash on the of her cigarette float to the ground. "It sounds like things are going well."

"Yeah, they are. You know, I gave up a slot with the crew in Paris just to be with her. After Sunnydale she wasn't willing to leave Buffy and Dawn, so I stayed."

"Sucks you had to settle for Cleveland."

"I know, but honestly? It was an easy decision."

Faith flashed her a wan smile. "So, where's the ring, Ken?"

Kennedy shrugged, pausing to take a deep drag on her cigarette. "Willow doesn't believe in marriage. She thinks it's sexist and old-fashioned."

"Bullshit. She's afraid of commitment."

"Will?" Kennedy gave Faith an incredulous look. "She's the most domestic woman I know. She makes Buffy look like a philandering adrenaline junkie."

"Buffy _is_ a philandering adrenaline junkie."

"Hardly the point."

Faith smirked. They lapsed into silence for a moment, listening to cars creak over patches of ice on the road behind them.

"She would never leave me. She loves me."

"Mm…"

"Isn't that enough?"

Faith shrugged. "Is it?"

Kennedy rolled her eyes. "Look out! We've got a fucking philosopher over here."

"I mean, is it enough for you, Ken?"

'Well, yeah." She threw her filter to the ground and watched it smolder in the snow. "It should be."

Faith raised a dubious eyebrow. "Okay."

"I mean…" the young woman huffed, "it's just that, mom and dad are starting to ask about grandchildren, and I haven't even gotten there yet. Willow and I still share a house with a bunch of other people. Hell, we can't even have loud sex. And then there's the fact that I kill demons for a living. We _definitely_ haven't talked about kids, and, well, it doesn't exactly seem right to have kids unless things are like, really serious, right? And stable?"

"I guess."

"I mean, doesn't it?"

"Sure."

"Not that I want kids right now, anyway. There's plenty of time for that later, but, I just… it got me thinking about us. About where we're going."

"She'll come around." Faith ground out her cigarette and tossed it away. "When she lost Tara it almost fucking ruined her. She's scared, ya know? For you and herself. She's not sure if she can handle losing someone else."

"She won't lose me," Kennedy asserted fiercely, hopping to her feet. "I'm not going anywhere."

"Good. Tell her that. Tell her that you want her, and you wanna make her yours. Girls like that shit." Faith hoisted herself off her respective tombstone, and shivered. "Let's get moving. It's cold."

"You've been in the tropics too long."

Faith's lips twitched and for a moment she was smiling. "Yeah, I missed the winter."

"You're crazy."

"Yeah."

"So," Kennedy rolled the word around her mouth as she tried to think of a less jarring way to change the subject, "what's bugging you?"

They reached the fence and vaulted over it nimbly back onto the street. The fog was growing thicker, a heavy, icy blanket of mist that froze in their hair and seeped into their clothes. If visibility had been poor when they'd set out from the house, it was atrocious now. A heavy, eerie silence had settled over the city.

"Buffy hasn't called me an evil slut yet," Faith replied at length, as though realizing it for the first time. "I'm actually kind of surprised."

Kennedy spared her a sidelong glance before turning back to the road. "Has she actually spoken to you at all?"

The brunette snorted. "Do hostile glares count?"

Kennedy smirked. "I'll take that as a 'no'."

"We argued the night I got in," Faith admitted. "She's been ignoring me since then."

"She's basically been ignoring everyone. I wouldn't take it personally."

Faith heaved an exaggerated sigh. "And here I was feeling all special."

"Yeah, well, she still changes the subject when Giles mentions your name," Kennedy shot the brunette a knowing look, "so, there's that."

"Wow."

"You have a special place in her heart."

"Right. The blackest, coldest, most unfashionable place."

They snorted in unison as they turned the corner onto a darker street, lined with smaller, shabbier houses. Home was less than a mile away, and Faith was anxious to get there. Slow nights always made her uneasy.

"I'm worried about her," she admitted quietly. "I've never seen her like this."

"Neither have we. I should probably tell you…" Kennedy hesitated and bit her lip before continuing. "It was really bad when we found her. Everyone had been missing for days, and we were all basically hysterical. And then the hospital called about Buffy...she was the only one left. She shrieked when Willow tried to touch her and she wouldn't look at any of us. It was awful."

A chill travelled down Faith's spine, raising the hairs on her neck. "What happened to them?"

"Well, shit," Kennedy sighed, and Faith realized that the she was trying to keep her voice steady, "Buffy wouldn't talk about it, and she pretty much flew into a panic if we asked too many questions, so Willow used a seer stone to access her memories."

"And?"

"And it was horrible. It kept Willow up for days. They tortured them, Faith." Kennedy stopped and grabbed the older slayer by the arm and held her back. "They raped the girls, and beat them, and drank from them for days, and the whole time they kept Buffy chained to a wall, blindfolded, so she could hear everything. And that happened _before_ they summoned the dreamcatcher through the portal."

"Fuck…"

Tears leaked from Kennedy's eyes, and she turned her head away. "Those girls were my friends. I spent every night slaying with them, and the only reason I'm here now is because it was my night off."

Faith took Kennedy's gloved hand in hers and squeezed. "You got lucky, Ken. There's no way to sugarcoat it."

"I know."

"Look, I've been in a lot of tight spots these last couple years." Faith's tone darkened. "I've seen things that would make you sick, like, chuck right on the ground sick. This ain't no TV show, yeah? Some real sick shit happens in the world, but if you dwell on it and play the 'what if' game you'll literally go crazy. And unless you wanna sweat out a prescription painkiller addiction in a bathtub full of your own puke, I suggest finding another way to deal."

"Jesus, Faith…"

"You have a responsibility now. You've gotta live for them, ya know? You've gotta make the most of life. 'Cuz you never know when it's gonna end." Faith's harsh, Boston accent was always more pronounced when she was upset, especially now, as she pulled the young slayer into her arms. "C'mere, Ken."

Kennedy sniffed. "Since when do you hug?"

"Since shut-up-and-appreciate-it," Faith said gruffly, and they clung together in a moment of shared camaraderie.

After a minute or so the girls pulled apart, clearing throats, stuffing hands into pockets, continuing their walk in contemplative silence, but something was off. The hair on the back of Faith's neck was standing on end. Her skin erupted in a rash of goosebumps, prickly, and almost painful. They were drawing closer to the next corner, but the fog was getting thicker, and she could barely see. From the corner of her eye she saw Kennedy draw her knife, twirling it deftly and gripping it in her palm. Faith responded with a tiny nod and slid her own blade from the leather holster at her hip. They could just make out the dark silhouette of a tall figure, dressed in a long overcoat, standing next to the light post up ahead. His features were obscured, but he watched them openly, and they could feel his eyes on them.

"Hello, slayers." His voice was deep, curious, and cold, cutting through them like an arctic wind. "Fancy meeting you in such a place." He smiled so wide that they could see it even through the fog.

Faith gripped her knife and clenched her teeth. She was so tense she thought her muscles would snap.

"Is this the freak?" she muttered.

Kennedy was either too scared or too focused to answer.

The figure started toward them, emerging like a black wraith from the fog, glowing orange under the streetlamp. His skin was a deep, chocolate brown, his head shaved and bare. He stood around 6'5", with brawny arms bulging in the sleeves of his overcoat, and legs the size of tree trunks stuffed into tight leather pants. His thick-soled combat boots crunched on the icy pavement as he approached, halting about 10 yards from where they stood.

"I know you." He cocked his head to one side, leering at Kennedy with luminous red eyes. "We've seen you before, but you," he turned to peer at Faith, "we haven't seen you."

Faith became aware of a tingling sensation along her spine. "He brought vamps."

"I felt it, too," Kennedy said through clenched teeth. "We're surrounded."

"Yeah, no shit. How do we get un-surrounded?"

The man laughed at them and spoke again, voice echoing in their minds. "Don't leave, girls. Let's talk."

He appeared to take a step forward, and then, before Faith could blink, he was inches from her face, peering at her like a hungry predator. She staggered back, but he snatched up a handful of her hair, ripping the beanie clean off her head, and bared a set of pearly white fangs. His mouth was wide, too wide, sickeningly wide, and when he grinned at her again, she felt herself growing dizzy. He had once been human. That much was clear to see, but up close the divergences were stark, sharp, extended cheekbones jutting out beneath his skin, an elongated jaw and a mouth twice its normal width. His eyes were red, and they blazed like hot coals as he grew more excited, flicking a pointed tongue across his teeth.

"Ken!" Faith gasped as he twisted the knife out of her hand. "Fucking stab him already!" But the sound of grunting, and growling, and blows landing on hard bodies nearby caused her heart to sink.

"Vampires!" Kennedy managed to shout back, now embroiled in a fierce scuffle in the street.

She dodged a would be attacker as he lunged for her throat and buried her silver knife in his back. Ragged screams were muffled in the cloying fog, which had taken on a new, sinister life of its own, swirling around them in a blanket so thick that neither slayer could see the houses around them any longer. Three more demons emerged from the mist and tackled Kennedy to the ground. Faith turned her panicked gaze back to the monster in front of her.

"I don't believe we've met," his smile diminished to a terrifying smirk, lip curled over a single, gleaming fang. "I am Christopher, and the bastard stuffed inside my body is Valerious."

"Dr-dreamcatcher," Faith choked, gagging as he clamped an iron fist around her throat.

"Yesss," he purred, and, leaning forward, ran his hot, black, pointed tongue along her jaw, pausing to nip at her jugular. "We love the way you taste."

"I shower regularly," Faith growled.

"Witty." The oily smirk dissolved into a scowl faster than she could blink. "Are you now so jaded that you've forgotten what you have to lose?"

"I've got nothing to lose but my dignity," the slayer wheezed, kicking at the dreamcatcher futilely as he lifted her off the icy sidewalk.

"How selfish of you." A predatory growl rumbled in his broad chest. "What about Buffy?"

"What _about_ Buffy?!" Faith coughed as clawed fingertips dug into her flesh.

"Oh, slayer," the stretched, inhuman smile returned to his face, and he shook her hard, laughing with delight as she whimpered and struggled, pawing at his arm with useless, gloved hands, "don't you know why they call me the dreamcatcher?"

Behind her, Kennedy had taken a particularly painful blow to the knee, and Faith could hear the bones cracking as the vampires cheered. She winced. They were so royally screwed.

"Well, do you?"

"N-no."

"Hm," he hissed, "I'm shocked that haven't done your homework."

She coughed and gagged. Her sharp vision was growing fuzzy around the edges. He was so strong that she could barely inconvenience him with her superhuman strength.

"Eat...a dick! You're just another fuh...fucking demon trying to ruin my night... Who c-cares...who the hell you are?!"

The dreamcatcher blinked with mild annoyance. "Are you a child? Your bravado might have been an effective defensive mechanism in grade school, but it won't aid you now."

"Bite me!" Faith spat.

The dreamcatcher bared his fangs. "I thought you'd never ask."

And he sank his teeth into her neck.

Faith had been bitten by several vampires before. Call it an occupational hazard, but this was nothing like that. Distantly, she was aware of a burning, crippling pain searing across her skin, and of her own voice, screaming hoarsely into the frozen night air. The sights and sounds around her grew blurry, and then faded. Faith screamed, but no sound came out. She tried to run, but she couldn't move, and suddenly she was falling, as if through the air, until, finally, she landed suddenly in a heap on the bare, dirty floor of a very familiar bedroom.

Her bedroom.

Yellowed walls, once white, now stained with layers of smoke and neglect. A grotty, single paned window that rattled in the wind and leaked like a sieve. The carpets had long since been pulled up, and all that remained was the old, pockmarked wood sub-flooring underneath, rough and unvarnished. There was a double bed on a rickety, metal frame, and a thrift store lamp perched atop a kitchen chair beside it. Ripped, faded posters gazed down from the walls: Nine Inch Nails, Led Zeppelin, Alice In Chains. Ratty clothes spilled from the drawers of a small, wooden wardrobe, hanging ajar with half of the handles ripped out. She turned her head and saw that the ground was littered with debris, trash, magazines, cigarette butts, bottles, wrist bands from local bars, and ticket stubs. Faith felt the bile rising in her throat as she realized where she was, clambering to feet and rushing to the window.

The streets of Boston glared back at her.

Oh, God, this wasn't happening. There was no way this was happening. She knew what day this was. Her stomach churned so ferociously that thought she might actually be sick. There was no way she could stay here. She had to find a way out. Voices sounded from the living room, loud, caustic, slurring voices and Faith flew into a panic. Not Keith not Keith not Keith no, God, please no! She stumbled across the room and reached for the door, but just as her fingers were grasping the doorknob, it flew open, striking her hard across the face. She cried out and staggered back into the bed frame, clutching her forehead, and when two heavy boots thudded against the stripped, wooden floors, Faith began to plead.

"Please, no! Please, please, please!"

Keith's eye were bleary and red. His dark hair was greasy and disheveled. There was a crop of grey stubble growing in around his mouth, and he looked like he had spent the night on the floor of a seedy bar. His grey undershirt was stained with beer, his jeans torn out at the knee. The drugs had made him thinner, but he had retained some of his muscular build through the years, and he towered over her regardless as he stumbled into the room. Muttering to herself frantically, Faith scrambled away from him, moving backwards on her hands and knees until her head hit the wall.

For his part, Keith seemed not to notice her distress.

"Yah fucking cunt mother won't put out," he drawled, swaying on his feet.

Faith peered around him to see the woman in question, passed out on the living room couch with a needle protruding from her arm. "Please, Keith, don't do this," she begged, curling in on herself against the bed frame. "Please, don't!"

"I know what yah trying t'do," he jabbed an unsteady index finger at her, "and it's fucking not...it's fucking not gonna work. Yah trying to make me feel bad for being a man." He wiped his mouth. "You whores are all the fucking same, tryna play coy with me, like yah don't want it. Well, I know you want it, bitch."

The man reached down and undid his belt.

"Keith!" Faith began to sob, growing hysterical. "Please, no! Keith!"

The memory grew hazier here, and it deteriorated into a barrage of sound and feeling, Faith crying out, tearing clothes, rough hands, bruises and blows. And then...pain, deep penetrating pain, like a burn spreading through her legs and her abdomen, and the sound of Keith grunting, cursing at her, choking her as he held her down.

It all stopped as suddenly as it had started, and Faith felt like she was falling again.

The scene changed. Her head cleared. She was standing next to a hospital bed holding someone's hand, Robin's hand. It was covered with cuts, all the way up his arm, traveling into regions obscured by the the sleeve of the hospital gown. His deep brown complexion was ashen, and his skin was cool. The heart monitor beeped slowly, faintly, as he struggled to breathe, in the final throes. The wound had been fatal. She could still see the bandages on his chest, poking out above the thin, green fabric. It was entirely her fault for inviting him on such a dangerous mission. She had been so quick to disregard his human frailty in exchange for his company. The beep on the heart monitor dipped and leveled into shrill screech. Nurses burst into the room, pulling her aside. Faith released his cold hand.

The weightless feeling returned.

Now she was in Boston again, but this time she was watching the disfigured old vampire, Kakistos, break the spine of her beloved watcher, Diana Dormer, over his knee like a dry stick. He ripped her body in half and lifted her torso up by the hair until a cascade of crimson blood flowed into his mouth, spilling onto his cheeks. Faith didn't linger here long. Soon she was back in Sunnydale, becoming aware of her location just as Buffy jammed the knife into her gut on the roof of her old apartment building. Faith was here for even less time. Images were passing faster, the memories were getting shorter. She woke up out of her coma in the hospital again, alone, abandoned, scared. She revisited the restless hell of the state penitentiary. She heard Buffy's venomous words in her ears again. "Apologize and I will kill you." Faith was falling, literally falling, deeper into her own mind, and somewhere, as though it were echoes in a vast cave, she could hear the dreamcatcher laughing.

Kennedy, meanwhile, was faring only slightly better. She had whittled her opponents down to just two vampires, a lanky, blonde man, and a petite, Asian woman. They circled her cautiously, leery of her even with the ruined knee and freely bleeding head wound. Slayers were not trifles. She slipped a bit on the snow-packed street, and gripped her bloody knife even tighter in her cold, shaking hand.

"What are you, chicken?"

The pair exchanged amused, but silent glances. Kennedy huffed and employed her best, most effective strategy when wounded: playing up her weaknesses. She breathed harder through her mouth, making sure to sound ragged and tired. She let her other arm dangle limp at her side and winced when it moved, feigning a dislocated shoulder, and, most importantly, she made sure to stumble, a lot.

"Come on, you dumb fangers!" she goaded, brandishing her knife with excessive bravado. "Let's do this already!"

The male demon was first to take the bait, lunging for her feigned bad shoulder. Kennedy balanced her weight on her good leg and feinted right, whirling around in time to snag her fingers in the back of his collar. She yanked and he fell hard, ribs cracking on pavement. Kennedy plunged her knife down as his ragged screams ripped through the fog, but he was ready for her, rolling quickly. Her blade sank into his shoulder, inches from his heart, and cold, crimson blood spilled out onto the street. Tugging her blade free, Kennedy moved to strike the killing blow, but she was tackled from behind, tumbling head over heels until she landed flat on her back, gasping for breath. The female vampire rolled them so that she was on top, pinning the slayer down with her knees. She was faster than the other. Kennedy bucked her hips, hoping to throw her weight and catch her assailant off balance, but the vampire was ready for this. Her face morphed and she sank her teeth into the slayer's neck, laughing through a river of steaming, hot blood as the girl writhed.

"Got you now, slayer," the tiny vampire snarled, her high-pitched feminine voice sounding almost comical coming from a blood-stained mouth.

Kennedy smiled and thrust her blade up into the vampire's gut, twisting for good measure. Blood leaked down onto her jacket and spilled onto the ground. "Did you get so hungry that you forgot about my knife?"

The vampire wailed and withdrew.

"What's that?" Kennedy climbed to her feet. "I can't hear you over all that screaming."

The male vampire grasped her ankle and she kicked him away with disgust. "Ugh, let's not do this again."

She dusted them both.

Whatever adrenalin she had left in her veins dried up as soon as she turned to survey Faith's condition, however. The brunette was sprawled on the icy pavement, writhing and moaning with the dreamcatcher bent over her, fangs locked around her jugular. Kennedy unzipped her coat and stuffed her hand inside, shaking like a leaf. She withdrew a small, black handgun and aimed at the dreamcatcher. He paused and unhinged his powerful jaw, raising his head, gazing down at his victim almost lovingly as blood dribbled off his chin.

"I know you're there," he purred.

Her hand trembled, messing with her aim. "Aren't you gonna move?"

"No." The smile vanished from his face as he turned to look at her. "I hope you kill me."

"Hold still."

Kennedy pulled the trigger.


	4. Stay

**4. Stay**

Buffy had fallen asleep on the couch again, and, as per usual, her vigilant little sister was with her, flipping through the channels over a bowl of cereal. Dawn had pulled her auburn hair into a ponytail and swaddled her lean frame in an oversized Browns sweatshirt, stolen from some high school boyfriend or another. It was mid December, and there wasn't much on that didn't relate to Christmas in some roundabout way, but she settled on an old episode of Cops and shoveled cocoa puffs into her mouth. A chase was happening somewhere in Florida. She chewed slowly as policemen hopped fences and ran through yards, pursuing a drug dealer, whose baggy pants became more and more of a disadvantage, until eventually they doomed his escape. He was tackled by a chubby, mustachioed cop and handcuffed in the blink of an eye.

"How do you not outrun _that_ guy?" Dawn muttered, checking the time on her phone.

It was well after midnight, later than the slayers had promised to be home, and normally she wouldn't have thought much about it, but things had not been normal in weeks, and if anything, this was the time to think about it. She dialed Kennedy's number and put the speaker to her ear, but the call went unanswered. Faith, too, failed to pick up. Cereal forgotten, she sat chewing nervously at a hangnail for a short while before reaching a decision.

"Buffy!" She nudged her sister gently. "Buff!"

The blonde moaned and swatted at her, but the teenager was persistent. After several more rounds of this, Buffy relented, blinking wearily in the dim living room.

"Mmph...What is it, Dawnie?"

"Ken and Faith are still gone."

Buffy's eyes flicked back and forth, studying Dawn's tense expression. "Okay. " She coughed a little, clearing away a bit of the phlegm that had settled deep in her chest. "What time is it?"

"1:15."

The sisters stared at each other wordlessly for a long moment.

At last, Buffy said, "We'll wait until two. If they're not back by then we're waking everyone up."

They didn't have to wait very long, however. At 1:30 Dawn again shook Buffy, who had been dozing through a car chase, and uttered something quietly about commotion outside. They peered out the window over the back of the couch, but even with the porch light on, it was dark, and too foggy to make much out.

"I think it's them," Buffy said, slayer vision aiding her against the elements.

Moments later the front door swung open and a body thudded to the floor. Stifling a startled squeak, Dawn leapt to her feet and rushed into the entryway. In her haste, she nearly tripped over Faith, pale and exhausted, kneeling next to Kennedy. Dawn's hands flew to her mouth. Kennedy's hair and face were coated with dark red blood, and her leg was limp, twisted at an odd angle.

Winded, Faith could only manage a couple words. "Get...Willow."

"On it!" Dawn replied with a jerky nod and turned to race up the stairs, feet pounding on the old floorboards.

Buffy materialized only seconds later, rigid, and white as a sheet. "What happened?"

Commotion and general clamor carried down from the second floor. Faith was still gasping, struggling to catch her breath. She pressed a fist against a stitch in her side.

"We were...ambushed."

Feet thumped on the stairs as Willow emerged, followed closely by Dawn, and then Noa, a young witch friend visiting from a coven in Spain.

"Ken!" Willow gasped, sliding to her knees. She placed gentle hands on the slayer's face. "Baby, are you okay? Talk to me!"

Dawn was crying, and Noa's expression was dark as Kennedy managed a thin smile, eyes squeezed shut, sucking in shallow breaths.

"I'm o-okay," she choked.

Faith dragged her eyes away from Buffy. "She's in a lot of pain." The dark slayer ran her fingers through a mess of brown hair, seeming to collect herself at last. "They shattered her kneecap."

"Oh my god," Dawn hissed.

"Kennedy shot him in the neck, and we were able to scramble away, but it was really fucking close."

Willow was already muttering incantations under her breath, and Noa joined in moments later.

"Who ambushed you?" Buffy's voice was brittle, gaze dropping to the blood-stained bite wound on Faith's neck.

"The dreamcatcher." Faith paused. "And some vampires."

"He bit you."

Faith glanced up sharply. "Yeah." She shuddered. "Fuck."

"Did he get to Ken, too?"

"No."

By now Kennedy had been sedated, and her face, screwed up in excruciating pain just seconds earlier, was relaxed, jaw slack as the witches worked their healing magic, weaving skin and bone back together in archaic tongues, words interlocking and overlapping. Willow's hands were glowing. Noa's long, chestnut brown hair fluttered, as if moved by a breeze, and Faith was so mesmerized that she flinched when Buffy curled small fingers into her elbow.

"Come with me," the blonde urged quietly, and Faith had never been very good at refusing her anything anyway, so she followed, silently, nodding to Dawn over her shoulder.

Her boots left wet, snowy puddles on the old hardwood. They climbed the stairs together, without once breaking contact, and only when the older slayer had closed the door to her bedroom did she remove her hand. Faith stood awkwardly, shifting from boot to boot with ice dripping off her coat as the blonde pierced her with a watery glare, sucking her bottom lip between her teeth.

"I _told_ you not to go after him."

Faith scoffed. "I didn't. We stayed close, but the fucker was looking for us."

"You should have been more careful."

"We _were _careful."

"You could've died."

"Yeah, I'm aware."

"Are you, though? Why aren't you more concerned about your own safety?" Buffy coughed and wiped her nose. "You're so cavalier about everything. It's like you don't care at all."

Faith rolled her eyes, and huffed. "What's this really about, B?"

Buffy shook her head and muttered something to herself, something dark and quiet that Faith didn't recognize. It didn't sound like English. Her eyes darted from side to side, losing Faith, losing the present, seeming to withdraw somewhere deep. Faith reached out, cupping her hand around the back of Buffy's neck, and the blonde returned, brown eyes and green eyes connecting again. Faith squeezed her quickly before letting go.

"Hold on a sec."

She stripped out of her layers quickly, dropping her coat, sweatshirt, boots, and gloves in a soggy pile on the floor. When she was finished she grabbed Buffy's hips and pulled her into a tight hug, rocking her back and forth, eyes fluttering shut when she felt tears soaking into the collar of her old, black shirt.

"He drank from you," Buffy mumbled, lips brushing Faith's neck.

She shivered. "...Yeah."

"I'm sorry. I should have been there."

"Did he bite you, too?"

"No, not me. But the others..." the tiny slayer shuddered. "I heard everything."

"I'm so sorry, B." Faith's voice cracked, and she swallowed hard. "But it's not your fault."

"I hate this. I really hate this. I'm not qualified to be a leader."

"Yeah, you are. None of this shit's your fault."

"It is," Buffy moaned. "Five girls are dead because I was being reckless, and I almost lost you, too. I just...I suck at this."

Faith sighed. "Whatever, we all suck at this. There's nothing you can do, B. Girls are gonna die, and there are a lot of demons out there determined to make that happen."

Buffy started to speak, but was again consumed by her need to cough, a hard, rib-wracking cough that shook her entire frame and left her breathless for several seconds.

Faith released her. "You should lie down."

"God, that's all I do anymore."

"That's what sick people do."

"I'm sick of being sick." Buffy put on her prize-winning pouty face and climbed into her bed. She patted the space next to her. "You coming?"

Faith blinked. "What?"

Buffy dried her tears on her sleeve and looked away. "You heard me."

"I mean, yeah, I heard you, but…"

"Faith, Jesus, just...come here." She propped herself up with one of her many fluffy, pastel pillows and stared expectantly at her sister slayer.

"Um, okay." Faith glanced down at her wet, muddy jeans. "Do you have any pajamas I could borrow?"

"In the closet, bottom drawer."

"Thanks."

Faith changed quickly and clambered onto the bed next to Buffy. Her heart was beating unusually fast and her limbs felt so completely awkward that she couldn't get comfortable. She stretched her legs out in front of her, clad in flannel reindeer bottoms that were an inch too short, and leaned back against the headboard. Buffy patted her thigh.

"Thanks."

"Yeah," her voice was gruff, thick, "whatever."

"I'm serious."

"Okay."

The blonde frowned. "It is _so _hard to be nice to you."

"Am I supposed to be flattered that you even bothered?"

"No, duh." Buffy's cute little nose was wrinkled. "It's like, exchanging pleasantries. I'm nice to you, and you're nice back."

Faith rolled her eyes. "Okay, fine. You're welcome, Buffy. Nice pajamas."

"God, no wonder you don't have friends."

"I have lots of friends," Faith glowered. "Not that you'd know anything about it."

Buffy crossed her arms. "You're right, I _wouldn't_, because you've been AWOL for years and never even bothered to call."

"Did your cellphone break?"

"That's not the point!"

"Isn't it?"

"Well, it's not like I have your number!"

"Giles does."

"Giles?"

"Yeah, we talk like, every month."

Buffy's eyes widened. "What?"

A strange expression crossed the brunette's face. "He didn't tell you?" Buffy didn't answer, and Faith made to stand from the bed. "You know what? Of course he didn't. Why would he?"

"Faith…"

"No, just...I'm exhausted, and...I should go."

"Oh, yeah, of _course_ you should," Buffy sniped. "You always bail."

"Well, why would I fucking stay, B? We can't even have a civil conversation!"

"Maybe because you always leave when I actually need you to stay!"

The words were out of her mouth before Buffy could stop them. Faith gaped at her. Their eyes were locked, bodies rigid, each afraid to move lest they be expected to react first. The words hung in the air between them, and Faith looked like she wasn't sure whether she wanted to melt through the floor or pull the frozen blonde into another hug.

"Just…" Buffy swallowed, face flushed in the dark. "Just stay."

"Okay..." Faith nodded faintly.

Buffy folded back the covers and motioned for her to climb in. Faith assented without a word, and when the blonde rolled over and snuggled back against her torso, Faith draped an arm across Buffy's hips as though it were the most natural thing they had ever done together. Maybe it was. They were bad at talking. They always messed it up. This was the way it should be, Faith thought, drifting away. She took a deep breath, inadvertently inhaling Buffy's scent, vanilla with a sour hint of cherry cough syrup, and sighed before she could remind herself not to.


	5. The New Faith

**5. The New Faith**

The next morning dawned bright and cold. Sunlight peaked through the sheer, white drapes in Buffy's window, alighting on a bookshelf stacked with fashion magazines and demonology texts, and an antique vanity Angel had shipped from Vancouver for her last birthday, a forest of perfume bottles and moisturizers arrayed upon its glossy, eggshell surface. Soft sounds drifted up from the ground floor. The house was beginning to stir, and Buffy listened to them pensively, eyes fixed on the neighbor's frosty, cedar-shake roof, just visible through a crack in the curtains. Her fingers slid over the expanse of empty space beside her, curling into the sheets around a single dark hair. She twirled the offending strand between her fingers and heaved an irritated sigh. Four years was not enough. No amount of time would be enough. Not if Faith ripped off the band aid every time the wound began to heal.

A curt knock sounded at the door and jarred her out of her thoughts.

"Buffy?" It was Dawn. "Noa's making breakfast. You want chocolate chip pancakes?"

Oh, yeah. Noa, the beautiful, buxom young witch from Granada. Buffy wasn't envious of her golden brown skin or her generous cup size. Nope.

She opened her mouth to speak, but the words caught in her throat and she began to cough. It hurt more than usual. The muscles around her ribcage were so sore that she clutched her sides. The door handle turned and Dawn poked her head into the room, eyes narrowed, expression unreadable.

"It seems kinda weird that you're not getting better, Buff."

The blonde cleared her throat a few times before she trusted herself to speak. "Weirder than a slayer being sick?"

"I don't know," her sister admittedly honestly. "Your whole life is pretty weird."

"I prefer the term 'wiggy'." Buffy used air quotes, and drew a reluctant smile from Dawn.

"Should we like, take you to the doctor or something?"

The slayer wrinkled her nose. "Eww."

"We should just get you a frequent flyer card. I wonder if they have those?"

"Speaking of frequent fliers," Buffy pushed herself up into a sitting position, "how's Kennedy?"

"Sleeping," Dawn glanced over her shoulder, "but fine. Willow completely drained herself putting that knee back together, though. Noa had to use a levitation spell to get them both back upstairs."

"Hmm," Buffy shivered and pulled the blanket up to her chest, "and, um...where's Faith?"

The teenager gave her a funny look. "No idea. We thought she was with you."

"Well, she was...last night. She's not in the study downstairs?"

Dawn frowned and shook her head.

"Did you check the basement?"

"No."

Buffy climbed out of bed and donned her bootie slippers, nearly losing her balance in her haste. "Pancakes sound great, Dawnie. Tell Noa thanks."

"Okaaaay? Sure."

Buffy shot her glare. "Problem?"

"No. No problem." Dawn held up her hands in surrender and backed out of the room.

. . . . . . . .

It became apparent very quickly that Faith was not her normal self. Buffy found her on the front porch, dressed in nothing but track pants and a hoodie, smoking a cigarette. Four or five crumpled filters were littered around her feet, and her eyes had a wild look in them, fixed, vacantly on some unknown point across the street. Buffy shivered and stepped out into the frigid Ohio morning, pulling the door shut behind her. The sounds of Dawn and Noa, chatting amicably in the kitchen faded away, and all that was left was the quiet cold and the domestic sounds of the neighborhood waking around them.

Buffy cleared her throat, hopping on the balls of her feet to stay warm. "You were gone this morning, and...I guess I…was worried."

If Faith heard this, she said nothing, simply put the cigarette between her lips again and inhaled. An uncomfortable gnawing sensation started up in the blonde's abdomen. Seconds stretched into minutes, and the dark slayer, who had showed no signs that she was aware of Buffy's presence, began to mutter to herself. Buffy reached out, tentatively, faltered for a moment, then pressed forward, flicking the burning cylinder from Faith's grip and taking the girl's hand in her own. She laced their fingers together, and stepped closer. Her gaze swept across Faith's features, pink, chapped chips, red-rimmed eyes, hollowed, drawn expression.

"Faith," Buffy implored, speaking softly, "what's wrong?"

A bloodshot gaze snapped to hers. "Hey, B. How long ya been there?" Her voice shook, and everything about it was unnerving.

"Come inside," the blonde began to tug on her hand, and Faith resisted for just a moment before allowing herself to be lead away, willingly.

When they sat down for breakfast, however, Faith didn't eat or partake in conversation, and eventually excused herself entirely, shuffling down the hall, disappearing into the study without a word of explanation.

"Hm," said Willow, rubbing the bags under her eyes, "that was weird."

It _was_ weird. Not that Faith had ever been a particularly good participator in social norms, but even for her, it was weird. Buffy chewed on her pancakes in silence as Willow and Noa launched into dry conversation about the mechanics of Persian cloaking spells versus Nepalese vanishing charms. Which one was a more efficient use of energy? Which one was immune to detection spells? Buffy's eyes were crossing by the time she had cleaned her plate.

"I'm going to bring some food up for Ken," Willow said, loading her plate with leftovers. "Oh, and Buff?"

"Hmm?" The blonde snapped out of a trance.

"I think we should skip patrol for a few nights. The more I read about this dreamcatcher guy, the more I'm thinking we might have to call in the big guns."

"What?" Buffy's nose crinkled. "Why?" The last thing she needed was moody, broody Angel in town to fuss over her.

"He's not your typical demon, obviously." The red witch glanced at Noa, who nodded stoically. "The essence of a hell god was artificially grafted onto his soul, and basically, he's extra strong and extra wiggy."

Buffy raised a quizzical eyebrow. "Define 'wiggy'."

"He's got powers. Like, evil psychic powers."

"Wait, psychic powers? For real?"

"Ya, for realzies."

Buffy could feel the blood draining from her face. "Oh, shit cakes."

Dawn snorted. "Shit cakes?"

"Will, he drank from Faith. She had puncture wounds on her neck last night."

Noa gasped, in traditional, dramatic Spanish fashion. "That is bad, very bad." She wrung her hands. "Her mind, sus pensamientos, could be compromised."

Buffy swallowed around the iron lump growing in the back of her throat. "How?"

"We are not sure," Noa admitted.

"We'll keep an eye on her," Willow soothed, squeezing the blonde's forearm. "If anything happens, we'll know."

. . . . . . . .

It was easy enough to give them the slip. Faith climbed out the window in the study and jumped the neighbor's fence. Her boots crunched in the snow, and she braced herself with a fist. When she straightened back up, a middle aged man in a puffy red coat, trimmed beard, and beanie was staring at her from his back porch. A cigarette dangled loosely from the corner of his mouth.

Faith cooly brushed the ice from her sleeves. "Hey, man." She nodded.

"What are you doing in my yard?"

"Parents are jerks," Faith hooked a thumb over her shoulder, hardly missing a beat. "Won't let me do anything without getting on my case."

"Uh huh," he was still suspicious, "so, why are you in my yard?"

The slayer shrugged. "I need to get to the liquor store somehow."

"Yeah, okay," he dropped his filter into the snow and ground it under his heel, "how about, from now on, you stay in your own yard."

"I was just leaving," Faith mumbled darkly.

She let herself out through the gate.

The walk to the liquor store was a long one, but it gave her plenty of time to think without the scoobies breathing down her neck. Teenage Faith would be very disappointed with this new, adult version of herself, backing down from tough guys, backing down from Buffy, sneaking out to buy booze instead of marching out the front door in harlot-red lipstick and leather. Of course, teenage Faith had also killed people in an attempt to drown out her insecurities, and how could she forget about the daddy issues? Something about being back, about seeing Buffy again, had her asking the same questions she had supposedly settled during her years of travel. Who was she now? Who was this new, grown up slayer with impulse control and a handle on her temper? What was her place in this brave new world of international slayer militias, and organized demon hunting efforts? No longer one of two in all the world, now one at the head of an army, the tip of the spear. What kind of respect did she expect to receive for her status? What kind of rapport did she hope to build with the others? It was easy to be the stone cold badass. It was safe to be the erotic loose cannon in leather. It was really fucking hard to just be Faith, and not a sum of her parts.

Buffy had done that, summed her up, looked down her nose, curled her lip in contempt. Buffy had drawn her conclusions at 16 and seemed comfortable keeping them, against time and better evidence. And yet, now Faith doubted the older slayer's motivations. Where teenage Buffy had been too wrapped up in Angel to pay Faith any attention, mature, grown up Buffy paid Faith a lot of attention, negative attention, criticizing her, bickering with her, demanding answers to questions that Faith absolutely did not want to answer. Even after her stint in prison, Buffy had been so absorbed in their battle with the First that she hardly treated Faith as more than a trifling annoyance. Something, somewhere, had changed.

"She's more honest now."

Faith froze in her tracks, soles skidding against the pavement. It was a voice she knew anywhere. Shaking, Faith turned her head until her wide, fearful eyes fell upon the woman who had spoken. Her blood ran cold.

"Diana…" The words were soft and breathy, uttered from a throat that had suddenly gone dry.

The face of her late watcher was unchanged, stern and lovely, sharp eyes glinting behind wire-framed glasses. Faith remembered every detail, down to the dimple on her left side, her widow's peak, the wrinkles forming in her brow. The Englishwoman was dressed in her preferred attire, a hand-knit cardigan and bright blue scarf, a heavy winter skirt made of grey wool, stockings, and sensible flats. She wore her honey-brown hair short, swooping low across her brow like a bird's wing.

"Buffy's older now, and more mature." Diana smiled. "She's more direct about her feelings now, about how much she dislikes you."

Faith flinched. "What?"

"Darling, don't sound so shocked," her old watcher tittered and adjusted her glasses with a wry smile. "Even if she forgives you for trying to kill Angel, who was, at the time, the love of her life, you haven't exactly given her a reason to like you."

"I-I…" Faith swallowed. Her hands were shaking as she stuffed them into her jacket pockets.

"Oh, dear." Diana shook her head. "You're just as incorrigible as you always were. What did the Council call you?"

"Difficult," the slayer whispered.

"Quite."

A passing car, which Faith had failed to notice at all, sprayed a wave of slush at her from a pothole in the road, startling her out of her stupor. When she looked up again, she was alone, legs trembling, too spooked to even feign annoyance about the slurry of mud and ice dripping off her shins. It took her five minutes to collect her wits, and five more to remember why she had journeyed out of the house in the first place. With shaking hands, Faith turned to face the run-down liquor store on the opposite corner. It seemed infinitely more foreboding now than it had in all her nights tromping past with Kennedy on patrol. She shifted from boot to boot, twitchy, nervous, muttering assurances to herself. A pair of kids shuffled past in flat-brimmed hats and doc martins, jerseys hanging out of their jackets. Just some locals. They exchanged skeptical glances as they made a wide berth around her.

Faith closed her eyes and forced a deep breath. "This is crazy. You look crazy. That demon got under your skin last night. Chill the fuck out."

But when she opened her eyes again, the painted, iron bars on the shop door across the street leered at her like teeth, like fangs, like fangs sinking into flesh, and for once in her life Faith questioned her craving for whiskey.

Right. Bad idea. Alcohol plus hallucinations equals a wicked bad time. A week long bender in Taipei had taught her that. She wasn't a kid anymore.

Murmuring under her breath, Faith began to turn around, intending to slink back home empty handed, but her foot caught on something and she tripped, landing flat on her back against the wet sidewalk. She cursed aloud in a thick, townie accent as ice water soaked her jeans and her hair. When she sat up, grumbling, rubbing the back of her head, Faith noticed that she had stumbled over a body.

"Oh, shit! I'm really fucking sorry!" She clambered forward onto her knees, intending to help the victim up off the pavement, but recoiled in horror when she caught sight of the pallid face before her.

The woman's skin was sunken, bruised, and sickly pale, limbs splayed out, clothes stained, draped across sharp shoulders, jutting ribs and pelvic bones. Her arms were marred with track marks, purples and reds, faded yellows, sickly greens. A single needle protruded from the woman's arm, the blade that had delivered the killing stroke.

"Ma?" Faith inched forward like a frightened child. "Ma?"

Her calls went unanswered, even as her fingers finally fumbled onto a limp arm. It was colder than ice. The slayer recoiled as if burned, hot tears bubbling and streaming down her cheeks, little tracks of fire cooling in the frigid winter air. She scrambled to her feet, staring down at her mother's body. Adrenaline flowed into her veins, making her sick, bringing an ache to her chest. Faith had forgotten how to breathe. Memories came pouring into her shell-shocked imagination, unbidden and unwelcome, images of Christmases without gifts or decorations, apartments without heat, cupboards without food. She remembered the dark, deadly nights of passionate self-loathing, the smell of vomit and mildew and neglect, the tendrils of toxic hope slithering around her heart every time her mother 'got clean', the marathon vigils over a motionless body, her own tiny fingers clinging to cool, clammy skin.

"Ma, please wake up."

She remembered the rotating cast of deadbeat, user boyfriends. She remembered fighting off the handsy ones, the violent ones, with fists, with teeth, with the knife she stole from Fred Mincelli's shop. Sometimes her ma felt bad when she came down, and sometimes she'd take Faith out to breakfast at Denny's as an apology, but the waitresses gave them dirty looks, and the other guests stared, at her mother's sunken cheekbones and Faith's thrift store clothes. When Faith got older she got angry, and then they didn't go out together anymore, because if she wanted to people to stare at her all day she'd get her own exhibit at the zoo.

So, they could go fuck themselves.

"Excuse me, dear," a kindly voice, accompanied by a warm pressure on her shoulder, called out to her, "are you alright?"

Faith flinched, jerking away, crossing her arms over her chest instinctively. An elderly black woman in a yellow dress,sun hat, and fur coat stood frowning at her with unmistakable concern. Why was she dressed so nice? Was that a church hat? Was it Sunday?

"S-s-sorry," Faith stuttered. Her jaw was chattering violently. "You s-startled me."

Kind eyes swept across her features. "Don't fret, dear. I didn't mean to frighten you. Are you alright?"

Faith bit her lip. "Are you…"

"...Am I?"

The slayer hesitated. "Are y-you real?"

"Well, of course I'm real, sugar." The woman's voice was crisp and sassy, in the most pleasant and matronly way. "What kind of question is that? Have you been takin' them drugs, darlin'?"

"N-no," Faith chattered, hugging herself tightly.

The kindly woman stepped closer and lowered her voice, pulling them both aside on the sidewalk, away from casual ears. "Tell me what's wrong, sugar."

"N-nothing."

"You're shaking like a palm tree in a hurricane, girl! Where do you live?"

"31st and J-J-Jefferson."

"Alright, you come with me." The woman looped her arm through Faith's and tugged. "We're going to get you home."

Faith just nodded anemically.

"You can call me, Bea. What's your name?"

"Faith."

"Oh, my!" Bea smiled. "What a pretty name!"

Faith nodded. Tears continued to roll down her cheeks, sliding into her collar. Her mind was getting louder. Voices, images, sounds, swirling, flickering, fading in and out. Dreamcatcher. Dreamcatcher. Why did they call him the Dreamcatcher? Faith pressed her fists into her eye sockets and fought an overwhelming urge to sink to her knees. She didn't have long. She knew she didn't have long. She could feel Bea's hand on her arm, leading gently, could feel her boots trudging forward, one foot in front of the other, but she was losing. It was too much. She was losing.

She staggered and tripped, and somewhere she could hear Bea calling to her, could feel her knees crunching against concrete. The pain made her lucid long enough to rip the cell phone from her jacket pocket and thrust it toward the kindly woman.

"Call Giles!"

Faces approached, swarmed her vision. Bodies appeared, littering the street around her. Casualties. Friends. Collateral. Tears blurred her vision and she tried desperately to catch her breath.

"Faith, did you get the money I left you?" The Mayor's earnest face peered at her between Bea's stocking-clad legs. "You were like a daughter to me. I want you be happy."

"I'm sorry I'm sorry I'm sorry!" Words poured out of her like water from a breaking dam. "I don't deserve your money."

He smiled, and it was as if no time had passed. Receding auburn hair and a clever smile, a lilting, teasing tone, sharp eyes twinkling at her.

"It's okay, Faithy. I understand why you did it."

"No, no no no no. Boss, I didn't mean it. Boss!"

He reached out and took her hand, still quivering, bloody for reasons she couldn't place. "I always knew how you felt about her."

"What?"

Faith gasped, and the Mayor was gone, replaced instantly by Alan Finch's pale, sweating face. He choked and blood oozed from the cracks between his teeth, dribbled from his lips onto the sidewalk, locked in his dying throes. A bloody stake rolled from Faith's hand into the gutter where it clattered into the sewer. The sound echoed in her head as more corpses appeared, dozens of slayers, bodies broken, twisted, lifeless eyes fixed on her like fingers, pointing, accusing. Robin, crawling on his hands and knees in a mint green hospital gown, wires and tubes trailing behind as he reached out to her, eyes bloodshot and scared. And then Buffy, standing over her with that awful knife, and a face full of hate.

Faith began to scream.

Strong arms gripped her shoulders, hauling her up off the ground. The sunlight blinded her, and the bodies vanished. As she struggled, her vision cleared, and she found herself gazing into Bea's anxious face. Faith was pulled back into a warm chest, a small, warm chest.

"Hold her tight, Ken."

Buffy?

Faith's head lolled to the side, and she was half pulled, half carried away from Bea. A pewter grey Jeep twinkled in the street under the bright, December sun.

"She's fine, Buff."

"I don't want her to start freaking out again. We're drawing too much attention as it is." The blonde gestured to a small crowd that had gathered on the opposite sidewalk, necks craning curiously around the humming vehicle.

"Is she gonna be okay?" Bea's voice was strained and tight. "What's the matter with her?"

"My cousin has some, uh...mental health issues," Buffy said, fumbling for something plausible. "She gets like this sometimes if she doesn't take her meds."

"Hm, so it was drugs after all."

"Sorry?"

"Never mind, dear. You take care of her."

Faith continued to mutter and shake as they opened the rear passenger door and loaded her inside. Giles was waiting behind the wheel, knuckles clenched, jaw working nervously on a peppermint candy. Kennedy rode shotgun, and Buffy climbed in next to Faith, who was now so overwhelmed that she couldn't still the tremors seizing her body. It was impossible to tell which voices were real, and there were so many of them, forming a clamorous din that ebbed and flowed in painful swells. A slender hand cupped her cheek, gripped her arm, and guided her body until she was lying down, head resting on a pair of thighs. Buffy peered down at her through the maelstrom and spoke clear, ringing words.

"It's gonna be okay, Faith." Callused hands stroked the hair from her face, thumb lingering, then sliding again. "I've got you."

"Is she hyperventilating?" Giles' voice floated in from somewhere far away, somewhere beyond the tunnel of clarity around Buffy's face.

"Yes," the blonde turned until only her neck and chin were visible from below. "and she's shaking really bad."

"I have the syringe."

"We can't sedate her in the car. I can't even hold her still."

"So, just like, stick it in there or something."

"Ken!"

"I'm afraid Buffy's right. We can't very well risk it in the car. She'll just have to hold out until we get home."

"Yeah, but look at her, she's practically going into shock."

"Buffy, can you handle it?"

"Yes." A warm hand caressed Faith's skin. "I've got her."

"Are you sure?"

"I've never been more sure, alright?" Buffy's response was clipped, flustered, as Faith began to convulse. "Just drive!" She leaned down over the brunette and began to whisper, fingers threading into hair, coiling, and tugging. "I'm here, Faith. I'm here. It's gonna be okay. You're going to be alright."

"Buf...Buffy?" Faith's voice was raspy, thin, more pleading than inquiry.

"Yeah, I'm here."

"Buffy...Buffy…" The dark slayer was grasping at reality now, like a slick, oiled rope sliding through her hands. "B...I'm sorry."

Soft fingers caressed her brow. "For what?"

"I'm sorry… that I left."

Her voice was little more than a dry whisper, but it was heard very clearly by everyone in the car. Buffy felt her cheeks heating up as Kennedy swiveled in the front seat.

"Holy shit, is she dying?"

"No, Ken. Shut up!"

"This sounds like a confession in a movie, though, doesn't it?"

"Oh my god, Kennedy!" Buffy exclaimed, exasperated. "Could you _be_ any more obnoxious?"

"Sorry, jeez."

Faith wheezed a little, and both girls waited with baited breath for her to speak again. When she did, her words were thick and remorseful, stripped of bravado, laid bare. Even Giles, focused on the road in front of him, was listening intently, glancing at them surreptitiously in the rearview mirror.

"I left because I was scared, B…" Faith's hazy eyes filled with tears, locked tight with Buffy's. "There's just something about us... Why do we always fight?"

"I don't know," she whispered.

"I hate it," Faith confessed tearfully, "I really fucking hate it. I keep trying to wrap my head around this, but I can't." The brunette shuddered and twitched again, clutching tightly balled fists against her chest. "We're the original two, B. I just...I just...I just don't want you to hate me anymore. It hurts."

Kennedy's eyes widened slowly as the color drained from Buffy's face. The blonde swallowed hard. Her fingers were coiled in brown hair. Her chest was done up in knots. She couldn't bring herself to speak, even as the whole car seemed to be waiting for her response. Faith was fading fast, eyes rolling around in her head like marbles as they flicked from corner to corner. She was painfully aware of Kennedy's intense focus, of her watcher's furtive gaze in the mirror, and yet, something had to be said. She bent down to whisper in Faith's ear.

"I never hated you."


	6. Think of Something

**6. Think of Something**

Willow removed the smooth, black seer stone from Faith's chest and shuddered. Her eyes were narrowed and dark as she drew away, scattering the ring of white sand arranged around the slayer's body on the basement floor. A tense silence had fallen over the room, and the strain only increased as Buffy waited for Willow to finish clearing away her pentagram. Footsteps thumped on the floorboards overhead, Giles pacing restlessly in the kitchen on his cell phone, conducting business meetings across half a dozen time zones. When this was all over, he would be forced to return to London, where he was needed by the organization. He would extend the offer to Buffy to join him, again. She would decline, again.

General Buffy was retired. She was content being a foot soldier, for now.

"This is bad."

Buffy glanced up at her friend, drawn expression barely visible in the dim candlelight. "How bad, Will?"

Willow collapsed back against the clammy, concrete wall, prevaricating between a litany of possible responses, some more honest than others. "I was better prepared this time, after looking into your memories before, but…" the witch sighed, "this is freaky. I'm wigging out, Buff."

"You should've see her when we picked her up," the blonde replied stoically, setting her ritual candle aside, "although I guess Kennedy must've shared some of the details."

"A few. She wasn't exactly forthcoming with information."

"Weird," Buffy grumbled. "She wouldn't shut up in the car."

Willow huffed. "I know you don't like her, but-"

"I like her fine, Will."

"Only because of me."

"I mean, well, yeah, but she's grown on me these last couple years." Buffy shrugged. "Not saying I get the attraction, but hey, she's totally loyal."

The redhead rolled her eyes. "_Anyway_…"

"Right, tell me what we're dealing with."

Willow tugged her bottom lip between her teeth and sucked on it pensively for a long moment. "The venom has almost completely destroyed the mental barriers that keep Faith's memories separate from the present. Specifically bad memories." The witch sighed and folded her legs beneath her, fingers plucking nervously at the end of her flowing skirt. "It's moving fast. It'll destroy her prefrontal cortex in less than a week."

Buffy tensed. "What does that mean?"

"In short, it means that she won't be able to tell what's real and what's imagined." Willow rubbed the heel of her hand into her eye, making all the more apparent her level of exhaustion. "She's literally going insane."

"Insane?" Buffy echoed, aghast.

"Yup," Willow twirled a finger around her temple, "we're talking hallucinations, voices, flashbacks, a general blending of the past and present, not to mention paranoia-"

"Stop! I get it!" Buffy held up a hand, voice cracking. "How do we fix it?"

The witch seemed to deflate, like a train running out of steam in front of a long, steep climb. "That's the wiggy part. I don't know."

"We need to call a meeting," Buffy mused, "maybe a research party."

"Noa has been communicating with her coven in Granada. They're scrambling to find answers for us." Willow hunched forward, bringing her legs up and resting her forehead against her knees. "I know she means a lot to you, Buff, but we're racing against time here. If we can't stop the venom there's no telling what kind of state she'll be in."

"You're not saying what I think you're saying…"

"I am."

"How could you even suggest that?" Buffy asked darkly, fingers reaching instinctively for Faith's limp hand.

"It would be the merciful thing to do." Willow's strained response was muffled.

"But that would be murder!"

The red witch raised her head and leveled a sobering glare across the circle. "You think I don't know that?"

"I... I-"

"Buffy, I don't suggest that sort of thing lightly!" Willow's expression turned to one of anguish. "You know that, don't you? I'm not a killer. It hurts to even think of it."

Tears formed in the slayer's eyes. "I know." She crawled forward, climbed over Faith, and settled next to Willow against the wall. "I'm sorry. I don't know what's up with me lately."

"I'm sorry, too," Willow mumbled. "I'm stressed out and _freaked _out, and I don't wanna send Kennedy out there again. I don't think I could handle losing her, Buff."

Buffy threw her arm around the redhead's shoulders and pulled her close. "I know."

"I know you know."

"I know you know you I know."

They giggled together softly and sniffled, breaking the melancholy spell that had fallen over the room for the briefest moment. Willow rested her head against Buffy's bony shoulder, shifting around, trying to find a comfortable spot. It was a spot she never found. The footsteps upstairs had ceased, but they could hear the TV now, and low voices. Buffy closed her eyes and blocked them out, dulling her slayer senses through sheer force of will. She wasn't ready to face them yet.

Faith stirred on the floor. Her fingers twitched, and her eyelids fluttered. She was waking from the spell.

"Are you going to tell her?"

Willow's gentle voice pierced the gloom, drawing Buffy back out of her thoughts. "About what?"

Her question was met with patient silence.

"Will…?"

"I've been inside your head, remember?"

Buffy squirmed. "Sometimes I manage to forget."

"She may not have long," Willow said softly. "You should tell her before it's too late."

"I don't know what to say. I don't...I don't even know what I _know_."

"Aw, Buff." The redhead smiled. "You're overthinking it."

"I overthink everything," the slayer grumbled. "That's my _job_."

"Yeah, but some things are really simple." Willow gave the blonde's knee an encouraging pat.

"This isn't simple.'

"Sure, it is. You just have to be brave enough to ask yourself the hard questions."

"Are you calling me chicken?"

"I am," Willow replied sternly, then giggled. "You know, for someone who spends her time killing demons, I'm surprised you've been so conflict-avoidy about this."

"Demons are easy, Will." Her head fell back against the wall. "People are hard."

"True story."

"I don't know what to say to her."

"You'll think of something."

"How do you know?"

"Because you're Buffy Summers." Willow offered a sly grin. "You always think of something."

. . . . . . . .

They held a tactical meeting in the kitchen over a box of pizza and a bottle of syrah. Noa preferred wine to almost all other beverages and blamed her Spanish heritage for it, not that Giles, or the others for that matter, were really complaining. It was nice to do classy things sometimes. Dawn had left the tv on in the living room, and the local news anchors could be heard puzzling over the recent wave of crime in downtown Cleveland, particularly a rash of homicides and kidnappings, bodies found with their throats ripped out, drained of blood. The murder rate had tripled in a week's time, and the locals were blaming some kind of covert drug war for the violence. Police officers were wandering around in body armor and riot gear, and the governor of Ohio was ready to call in the National Guard. The situation was escalating, and it was forcing the watcher's hand. He would have preferred to take more time studying the enemy, getting to know its habits, weaknesses, calling in additional forces to help. Moving too hastily was an efficient way to get his girls killed, but Faith was getting weaker, and they were running out of time.

He called the group to order as Kennedy finished clearing away the dishes.

"Alright. Status updates." Giles grabbed a pen and a legal pad. "Who wants to go first?"

"We're stocked with food and supplies." Dawn tossed a receipt on the table.

She and Kennedy had raided the grocery store earlier, battling long lines and depleted shelves with other nervous, Cleveland residents. The fridge and pantry were now crammed with several flats of bottled water, canned food, a 20 lbs sack of rice, pasta, eggs, two weeks' supply of yogurt (for Buffy), flour, salt, sugar, yeast, and a variety of frozen goods. Their stock included a surplus of flashlights, lanterns, batteries, oil, water filters, a camping stove, and medical supplies, all of which was piled in the living room next to the Christmas tree.

"I picked up extra rounds for the rifles," Kennedy added, the only one in the room who was fond of guns. "I also grabbed a couple side arms, just in case."

Giles winced. "Thank you, Kennedy."

"You'll be glad we have them someday."

"I'm sure." The watcher glanced around the table. "What else?"

Noa jumped in with her thick Andalusian accent. "I placed protective charms around the house, and I made some necklaces with locating spells for everyone to wear." She indicated the pile of leather cords in the center of the table, each fitted with a heavy, carved bead of ivory or bone. "There is a gem on every necklace. We can used them to find everyone, in case of a separation."

"Tribal," Dawn murmured, reaching out to take one.

The others followed suit, slipping the leather thongs around their necks. Giles waited until everyone had finished tucking their new jewelry under the collars of their sweaters before pressing on.

"Kennedy, are the vehicles ready?"

"Stocked and fueled," she responded smartly. "I loaded the garage with extra cans of gas just in case."

"Excellent. We can use that for the generator if need be. Buffy? Willow? Any updates on Faith's condition?"

"Stable, but still deteriorating." Willow glanced at her best friend, whose glum expression spoke for both of them. "The venom from the dreamcatcher's bite is tearing down the mental barriers that prevent reality, memory, and dreams from overlapping. In other words, auditory and visual hallucinations."

"How is she now?"

"Sedated. I used the chains in the basement to make sure she won't go anywhere if she wakes up."

"Alright." Giles nodded stoically. "Is the damage permanent?"

"There's no way to tell, but it's serious." Willow's voice grew softer. "I give her a week before she's beyond our help."

A hush fell over the table. Buffy's head dropped into her hands. She was too tired to hide her feelings on the subject. She was coming unglued, and it was obvious how it affected the others. Their nervous glances were deafening, twisted mouths, shifting feet, and wringing hands. She was supposed to be a slayer. The guilt was heavy, but her grief pressed down like a boulder, like a bear on her chest. Buffy dug her nails into her cheeks. Her chest ached.

A strong hand settled on her shoulder, squeezing gently. "It'll be alright, Buffy."

She couldn't bring herself to respond.

"Do we have any idea how to fix it?" Giles gazed at the stricken faces around him. "Any idea at all?"

"...There is a possible solution," Willow began hesitantly, "but I can't guarantee anything. I'm just going off a hunch."

"Enlighten us, please."

The red witch swallowed hard, glancing at Noa for support. "We found something in a slayer journal. It's a recipe for an antivenom, kind of. It sounds like it _could_ work, but it calls for the blood of the demon."

The watcher's expression was inscrutable. "How much?"

"It's not exactly...specific."

"Alright. As much as we can get, then." He scribbled something on his notepad. "Do you have everything else you need? Do you need to restock any ingredients."

"Just a couple of things," Willow replied thoughtfully, "but they won't take long to get."

"Can you get them tonight?"

"Probably."

"Good." Giles' posture straightened. He was immensely relieved to have a plan. "Take Noa and Kennedy with you. Take your phones and the radios, and…" his mouth twisted, "...take one of the guns with you."

"I carry one with me everywhere," Kennedy volunteered proudly. "Already covered."

The watcher grimaced, then nodded curtly, "Fine."

"Trust me, you'll thank me some day."

"Unfortunately, I think you might be right." He turned to Willow. "I'm summoning some reinforcements. Competent as Buffy and Kennedy are, we are outnumbered and outmatched."

"That's fine with me." She glanced furtively at Buffy. "It's not me you need to worry about."

The trio gathered their things and left in a hurry, grabbing the keys off the granite countertop as they tromped out the door in boots and hats. Only Buffy and her sister now remained at the table with the beleaguered Englishman.

Dawn fixed the watcher with a pointed look.

"How am I meant to interpret that?" he asked shortly, directing a finger at himself.

"Oh, you know exactly what it means." Dawn rolled her eyes. "Don't play dumb."

"I'm not bringing in backup slayers, if that's what you're implying. The last thing these vampire cultists need is more food." He sniffed. "I'll call in some favors."

"Good," Dawn nodded. "Okay, c'mon Buffy. Bedtime."

A mumbled refusal was the only response she got out of her grief-stricken older sister, but if Dawn was anything, she was obnoxiously persistent.

"Buffy. Up. Now."

"Dawnie, I don't..."

"What would Mom say if she were here?"

That was the trump card. Buffy slid bonelessly out of her seat and allowed Dawn to lead her toward the stairs.

"We'll see you in the morning, G."

. . . . . . . .

Buffy went to visit Faith the following afternoon while the witches prepared their spell ingredients, blending and bagging them together for ease of use. Willow had tasked Kennedy and Dawn with wiring smoke bombs and silver-laced shrapnel grenades, and the job was difficult enough that both were silent, for once, hunched over the kitchen table with furrowed brows. Giles was out and about somewhere, meeting with some "hired muscle". Everyone was busy, which left Buffy with nothing to do.

She descended the stairs in thick socks, plate of pizza in one hand, water bottle in the other. The wooden planks creaked underfoot, and when she reached the basement, a new scent had mingled with the smell of musty dryer sheets and sweat.

Faith.

"Hey." She was awake, perched on her bunk, passing a ratty tennis ball back and forth between each hand.

"Hey." Buffy eyed the manacles around her wrists with trepidation. "That wasn't my idea, by the way."

The brunette nodded.

"But Willow was afraid you'd hurt yourself or something...try to run away."

"S'cool." Faith looked down, and a heavy, awkward silence settled over them.

"So...um...you hungry?"

The brunette just shrugged, shoulders twitching a bit, as they seemed wont to do in the last 48 hours. She was dressed more casually than Buffy had ever seen her, in an oversized Patriots hoodie that feel to her thighs and black leggings that were threadbare around the kneecaps. Her face was completely bare, cleaned meticulously of dirt and smeared eyeliner, but her cheeks were still puffy, and her eyes were still red, and Buffy didn't think that Faith had ever seemed so exhausted before.

It made her chest hurt.

"U-um…"

"Are you real?" Faith asked suddenly, head cocked to the side.

Buffy felt a chill run down her spine. "Yes."

"Prove it."

"Okay, well…" she bit her lip. "I don't really know how to do that...but...I guess since I'm here I should say that I'm sorry."

Faith's wary expression changed to one of bewilderment. "For what?"

Buffy sighed heavily. "For being a bitch to you, like, all the time."

Faith gaped at her.

"I'm serious."

"Well, I mean, you weren't...not all the time…" the brunette echoed distantly. "Sometimes you just ignored me."

Buffy winced, and shuffled awkwardly. Faith had her there. Aside from Dawn and Willow, most of her conversations occurred with demons, and she was better at hurling insults and bad puns than she was at effectively communicating with other human beings.

She glanced down at the plate in her hand.

"Mind if I sit?"

Faith scooted over, chains clinking lightly, and patted her sleeping bag.

"Thanks." Buffy's smile was more of a wince. "I swear I'm real."

"I know you are." Faith rolled her eyes. "Imaginary Buffy would never apologize for anything."

"Yeah, I figured as much." She folded her legs underneath her. "So, what's imaginary Buffy like?"

Faith selected the largest slice of pizza on the plate and took an enormous bite. "Mm...stabby." She swallowed. "Angry. Threatens to kill me a lot."

"I'm sorry. Again."

"Don't be." Faith liberated the plate from Buffy's hands and cracked the seal on the water bottle. "It's ancient history, and I was a fucking headcase back then."

An errant memory filtered into Buffy's head, of fiery brown eyes, and a pinched expression. Reds lips moving. White teeth flashing. Always at night, beneath the trees and the stars, flitting between headstones. She recalled the feeling of leather and denim in her hands, the scent of smoke and cologne that always seemed to linger around the brunette, even when she seemed much too young, her face too soft, to be that hard. Faith moved like a dark storm through Buffy's world, with flashes of brilliant, white light, and the crash of thunder on her heels. It was always such a shock, the turnaround, like a door slamming in her face.

"So, was I," she admitted heavily. "You showed up in town and we all acted like jerks. You were just so…" Buffy paused, sucking her lip between her teeth as she searched for the right word. "Scary."

"Scary?" Faith twitched and tried to play it off by stretching her arm. "I'm not scary."

"You were back then." Buffy frowned. "You okay?"

"Yeah." Faith's eyes darted away from a spot in the corner. "Just need to ignore it. It'll go away." She demolished another slice of pizza and wiped her hands on her leggings.

"What do you see?"

The brunette flinched. "How 'bout we don't talk about it, 'kay, B?" She shuddered and set the plate aside. "I don't feel good. How old was that pizza?"

"We got it last night."

Faith wiped her eyes and shuddered, hands straying instinctively to cover her ears, but it didn't seem to help. Buffy glimpsed the expression on her face and knew what it meant. She reached out and wrapped her arms around Faith's shoulders, pulling her in against her chest, threading her fingers into wavy brown hair.

"C'mere."

"What the hell, B?"

"Just stay still."

"No, let me go."

Buffy rolled her eyes. "Would you just chill for a minute? I'm trying to help."

"Yeah, well, you're not." Faith made as to push away, but her arms quivered like jelly, and she relented, rubbing her nose into the collar of Buffy's shirt. "Jesus, you piss me off."

"The feeling is mutual," Buffy replied drily.

She rubbed her fingertips into Faith's scalp, and the younger slayer sighed, biting down on an incriminating moan. Buffy's skin tingled. Every hair on her head stood on end. She leaned back heavily against the cold, concrete wall.

"Have you figured it out yet?"

Buffy swallowed. "F-figured what out?"

"Why we fight?"

"I- um…no..."

"I've been down here thinking about it all day." Faith's eyes fluttered shut. "Maybe I'm just going crazy. I can't control my thoughts anymore. It's like they just fly in and out of my head, like I'm some sort of psycho bird house. I don't fucking know.

"Don't call yourself that." Buffy's throat felt thick and swollen, voice hoarse as she forced the words out "You're not psycho."

Faith continued as if she hadn't spoken. "I mean, I have some ideas, but they're fucking crazy. Crazy, B. I think I'm losing my shit."

The blonde had no answer, but her nerve endings buzzed like live wires as chapped lips brushed her bare collarbone. The air left her lungs in a rush.

"Oh, wow…"

"I know."

"Wow..."

"Yeah."

"Is this...?"

"I don't know, B. Jesus! Why the fuck would I know?"

Buffy swiped the pad of her thumb across Faith's cheek and shivered. "Oh my god."

"I'm sorry," Faith groaned. "I'm sorry."

Buffy didn't know what for, but she was too afraid to ask, head lolling back against the wall, fingers digging firmly into brown tresses. A light pressure returned to her skin, just below her clavicle, lips brushing, then sweeping a path of sparks up to her throat. Her breath hitched. Her chest jumped. She pulled harder at dark roots, and Faith made a strange little noise, strangled, like a voice being muffled with a hand. The tips of Buffy's fingers had begun to throb, almost painfully. Her jaw fell slack, mouth ajar, heart rate spiking and lungs shuddering. She became aware of Faith shivering. She became aware of a hand behind her ear, and the length of a cold chain slithering over her shoulder, and by this point she was almost positive that her entire body had gone up in flames.

The sound of the door being thrown open at the top of the stairs jarred them both out of a stupor. Faith tried to untangle her limbs, but the blonde's muscles had taken on the consistency of pudding. Without her cooperation, the brunette's attempt at escape was awkward and ostensibly unsuccessful.

"Buffy!" Dawn's voice carried into the basement. "You down there?"

"Yeah, Dawnie, what is it?"

"They're getting ready to go! They need you up here!"

She took a deep breath to steady herself. "I guess duty calls."

Her mind was screaming, but her voice sounded so calm. Buffy blinked fiercely, trying to dispel the haze in her eyes.

Faith withdrew and pulled herself upright, brushing her hair out of her face with practiced nonchalance.

"I'll be here when you get back."

Buffy tried to smile. "Don't wait up."

* * *

><p><em>AN: A toast to my glorious readers: _

_Amber_

_C-c-c-c-combo Breaker _

_K-tout_

_sstrong233_

_I can't thank you enough for the reviews. __They mean a lot to me. _

_-A. Rex_


	7. Heavy Artillery

**7. Heavy Artillery**

Dressed head to toe in black, wool caps pulled over their ears, the slayers scaled the side of an old, brick warehouse on a rusty ladder. Long gone were the days when Buffy fought in her street clothes, breaking heels, shredding her best shirts and jackets. The weather in Cleveland was inclimate, to put it delicately, and she had long abandoned any hope for a normal, boring life. She had buried those dreams in the crater formerly known as Sunnydale, shedding any pretenses that remained on the subsequent bus ride through the California desert. By the time they had reached Ohio, she had embraced her calling more fully than ever before. She did not go to the mall to buy dresses and shoes. Instead, she drove to REI with Angel's corporate card and bought climbing gear, hunting knives, boots, gore tex pullovers, Carhartt jackets, leather gloves, and tight, black track pants. The new Buffy Summers was leaner, meaner, and ruthlessly efficient. The new Buffy Summers dressed for war.

Kennedy hauled herself over the last metal rung and thrust out a hand to help the blonde up. Then they were moving, creeping off across the rooftop to the far wall. Buffy's lungs protested against the cold as she moved, and her chest was already sore. She crouched down with Kennedy on the north side and did all she could to hide her discomfort.

They had gone over the plan again and again, ad infinitum. There were a lot of moving parts, more than Buffy usually preferred to work with. She was more subtle now than in her youth, growing shrewder and craftier every year, employing new techniques, bending the rules, blurring the lines, and yet, her stomach churned as she watched Kennedy clear away some snow and set her duffle bag down on the rooftop.

"I can't believe Giles let you bring that thing."

"Well, what else were we gonna do? Use the crossbow?"

"Gosh, I don't know," Buffy's nerves bled through in her hushed, irritated tone, "maybe _not_ encourage the demons to beef up their arsenal?"

"It doesn't have to be a regular thing." Kennedy peered over the ledge and scanned the vacant lot down below.

If only it were that simple. The eldest slayer had picked up so many fighting techniques from her enemies over the years, was it such a leap to assume that they were also capable of learning new tricks?

"I would like to insert a comment here about slippery slopes," Buffy whispered tartly.

The brunette just shrugged. "Insert whatever you want, wherever you want. Still doesn't change the fact that none of you could come up with a better idea."

"You lobbied pretty hard for _your_ plan."

"Because I know it'll work." The slayer checked her watch. "Besides, we're running out of time."

Buffy flushed. "You think I don't know that?"

"Did I say that?" Kennedy rolled her eyes. "Jeez, defensive much?"

They didn't work together often, and Buffy was starting to remember why. Being the only two veterans stationed in Cleveland, it was fairly convenient to divide up the training responsibilities between them so as to keep their on the job collaboration to a minimum, but there were also working relationships to consider, and the fact that Willow was intent on keeping the blunt, bullish, tactless New Yorker around indefinitely. She ground her teeth and reminded herself, rather forcefully, that it would be a bad idea to punch her associate while they were on a mission.

"You have no idea how effective this technology will be against a demon," she argued instead.

"I know it'll work. I've shot him before, remember?" Kennedy moved away from the ledge. "And anyway, why not try it out? What's the worst thing that could happen?"

"You say that like Faith's _not_ chained up at home talking to dead people."

"Okay, okay."

They fell silent for a moment, scanning for movement in the dark.

"There," Buffy whispered, pointing out over the edge of the rooftop.

"Looks like playtime's over." Kennedy reached for the bluetooth device on her ear. "We've got eyes on the target."

A voice crackled through the speaker. "_Line up the shot_."

Kennedy quietly unzipped her duffel bag and removed the long, slender barrel of a military grade sniper rifle. Next, she withdrew the body of the gun, pre-assembled at the house, and attached the barrel and silencer. When this was finished, she hefted the rifle onto her shoulder and began adjusting her scope. Buffy, meanwhile, continued to watch the approaching figures through a pair of sturdy binoculars. Her slayer vision was sharp enough to forego the night vision goggles distributed to the rest of the gang. The slayers were perched on top of a warehouse, peering into an empty lot across the frozen alley. Snow had begun to fall again, and there was a winter storm in the forecast. They had to finish this operation before visibility became an issue.

On cue, three, tall figures slunk out of the dark alley and crossed into the vacant lot. The watcher's promised reinforcements had arrived in the form of Dimitri, Mikhail, and Alexei, brothers from revolutionary era Russia, and vampires. It was unknown what favors they owed Giles, who had collected many dubious and enigmatic allies in recent years, but whether she trusted them or not, Buffy didn't have much of a choice. They were lean on friends, and short on time. The brothers waited silently as a second group approached, emerging from the shadows on the far side of the lot. They were vampires, dressed rather boldly in burgundy robes, cowls pulled over their heads. Metal gauntlets and boots peeked out beneath heavy fabric. In their midst stood the dreamcatcher, tall and deadly in his usual attire of black leather. The company moved swiftly, only the faint click of armor announcing their arrival.

Buffy spoke into her microphone. "There are vamps stationed on the perimeter. Two northside facing the street."

"_Roger_."

Voices crackled down the line as the dreamcatcher and his minions approached the three brothers. The company halted and arranged itself into a square, surrounding their leader in the center. The vampire cultists raised their fists in unison and spoke together.

"_Hail, Antislayer." _

"_Hail, Antislayer_," the brothers repeated solemnly.

Willow's voice echoed clearly through the channel. "_Almost ready. Target is in sight._"

Kennedy peered down the length of her sniper barrel. "We'll wait for your signal."

"Give us an ETA, Will." Buffy glanced down at her watch.

"_Five minutes_."

"Roger."

Meanwhile, on the ground, the front line of cultists had knelt down in the mud and snow, giving their master a clear view of the Russian trio. A hush fell over the group as he studied them, crimson eyes burning like fiery lanterns in the dark. A minute pass in silence, snowflakes gathering on his muscular shoulders. At last, he elected to speak.

"_State your names._"

"_Alexei."_

"_Mikhail_."

"_Dimitri_."

"_What is your business with me_?"

Mikhail, not the oldest, but the tallest, spoke first. "_We have information to sell_."

The dreamcatcher cocked his head to the side, sharp, jutting cheekbones visible still from a distance. Visions of a black cave flickered in her head, of candles bleeding down the rock walls, flowing over the edges of a giant pentagram, of a sticky cavern floor drenched in a coagulated layer of gelatinous blood, of humid, rancid air, and bodies, dismembered, discarded. Buffy's heart thumped like a marching drum. Her hands grew clammy in her supple, leather gloves as she set the binoculars aside. Kennedy muted her microphone with a finger and turned away from her scope.

"You okay?"

"Fine."

"Nervous?"

Buffy swallowed hard and knelt down behind the brick retaining wall, allowing herself to slump against it for just a moment. She resisted the desire to cough, instead fumbling for and unwrapping a lemon throat lozenge.

Kennedy regarded her with concern. "You'd tell us if you weren't up to this, right?"

"I can still see their faces." Buffy's voice was raspy and quiet. "And I can hear them."

A strong hand grasped her arm and squeezed. "It wasn't your fault."

The blonde shuddered. "I don't think this is a good idea. I'm not myself lately. I don't want you guys to get hurt."

"We're adults, Buffy. We chose to come on this mission with you."

"But-"

"And we know the risks, but if we don't do this, Faith will die."

Mikhail's voice crackled down the line. "_We have ties to the slayer they call Buffy. We will tell you what we know in exchange for your assistance with a personal matter." _

The dreamcatcher answered slowly, voice deep and cold. "_What makes you think that I want any information you have to offer_?"

"_It is good information_."

Willow chimed in. "_We're ready_."

Buffy's heart was in her throat. She wanted to vomit, to crawl away and curl into a ball, but Kennedy was staring her down, waiting patiently for an answer.

The dreamcatcher snarled at Mikhail. "_I don't care. Your arrogance is outrageous. Don't you know who I am?_"

Giles cut in. "_The deal is going south. Kennedy, do you have the shot?_"

She uncovered her mic, but her eyes never left Buffy's. "One sec, G."

"_You are a demon lord." _

"_I am not just any common demon lord. I am a hell god! I am the antislayer! The one they call dreamcatcher! And who are you vermin that I should stoop to 'barter'," _he spat the word like bitter poison, "_with you?! Why, when I could simply subdue you and take what I wanted from your weak, unguarded minds?_"

"_Kennedy!" _Giles sounded desperate, rushed. "_The deal is falling apart. Do you have the shot?_"

"Are you ready?" Kennedy's eyes burned into Buffy, conveying, with as much force as they could, the gravity of their situation. "I can't do this without you. Do I have the shot?"

A vision of Faith rose in her mind, lying prostrate on the sidewalk, shrieking at invisible demons, dripping wet and disheveled. Faith's eyes dodging corners, muttering under her breath. Faith chained, in the basement, shackles digging into her wrists. Buffy took a deep, shuddering breath.

"_Kennedy!_" Giles was literally shouting in their headsets. "_We're running out of time!_"

"Take the shot!" Buffy gasped. "Hurry!"

Kennedy nodded. Like a whip, she snapped back into position, steadied the rifle, and put her finger to the trigger.

"Target acquired."

"_Take it!_"

Buffy ducked down and covered her ears as a clear shot rang out in the dark. Kennedy was grinning fiercely, pumping her fist in the air.

"Bullseye!"

"_Target neutralized_."

Buffy heaved a sigh of relief and peaked out over the low wall again. A deadly silence had fallen over the empty lot as the vampire minions struggled to sort out what had happened. There was blood in the snow, and blood splashed across a couple of confused faces, but it wasn't until the dreamcatcher collapsed onto the ground that the realization hit them.

Mikhail, Alexei, and Dimitri were already sprinting off into the alley.

Shouts of rage and confusion filled the area. Several cultists had thrown off their robes, revealing padded leather armor, and begun to chase after the three brothers. Others were casting about wildly, clamorous and disorganized, looking for the source of the attack, while their master writhed and gurgled in a puddle of slushy red snow.

"Man," Kennedy whistled under her breath, bending down to pack away her rifle, "demons really don't understand guns."

"Let's hope they never figure it out." Buffy tossed a pair of curved, silver-plated knives at the other slayer. "C'mon, let's go!"

Kennedy slung her bag over a shoulder, and together they vaulted over the edge of the roof and landed together on the fire escape, boots pounding like hammers against the metal stairs as they descended. When they reached the second floor Kennedy swung over the railing and jumped off, landing in a crouch 15 feet away. Buffy pushed off behind her with strong thighs and pulled a couple smoke bombs from her jacket pocket, notching them between her knuckles. Kennedy crouched into an aggressive fighting stance as Buffy leapt from the platform, arm whipping forward like a major league pitcher. Two small orbs sang over the younger slayer's head and glanced off the boots of a hapless vampire, exploding into a cloud of smoke upon impact.

Buffy hit the ground running, drawing a gleaming, red and silver katana from the sheath on her back. "Will! We're on the ground!"

"_I heard. I'm guessing the smoke bombs worked?_"

"Like a charm!"

"_The spell should keep them disoriented for a few minutes, but be careful!_"

"Roger!"

Buffy centered her sword and exploded into the circle of angry vampires, whipping the blade down for a vicious horizontal strike on the first body she came upon. There was no feeling as satisfying. Like cutting butter. She cleaved a head from its shoulders and snarled triumphantly as it turned to ash on the second bounce.

"One down!"

Kennedy executed a perfect backflip, kicking a demon over the head with both feet. He went down face first in the snow, and let out a strangled cry as she buried a knife in his back. Dust billowed up into the air.

"Two down!"

Buffy rallied with a boot in the chest of an encroaching demon and hard vertical strike, whirling the sword in the snowy air above her head before bringing down like a hammer.

"Three down!"

Delighted laughter rang out in the night as Kennedy snapped a neck.

"Four down!"

"_Not sure how much longer Noa's spell will last_."

Buffy smashed the hilt of her sword into the jaw of a lunging vampire, grinning as the sounds of breaking teeth and cracking bone mingled with anguished shrieks. She finished the job with a boot to the neck and a blade to the heart.

"Five down!"

It was almost going too well, Buffy thought. She whirled and ducked, darting through the smoke, soles sliding over rocks, blood and snow. Confused vampires hemmed in from either side, arms outstretched, and she happily separated at least one arm from its shoulder. She felt better than she had in weeks. Dismembering, decapitating, disemboweling, it all came so naturally to her. But as the minutes ticked by Noa's spell began to wear off, and the demons were getting smarter, angrier, stronger. Buffy suffered a blow to the back of the head and ended up with a mouth full of icy dirt, rolling to avoid certain decapitation with a machete. She pierced her assailant through the abdomen and received a face full of cold blood as her reward. Kennedy, meanwhile, had taken a few rocks, and a vicious punch to the eye that was sure to leave a shiner A vampire popped in from her left and smashed her in the ribs with a plank of wood. Kennedy recoiled, gritting her teeth. Charging forward, she launched herself into a two-legged kick, bringing him down hard in the dirt with a knee on his chest. She growled and buried her knife in his throat up to the hilt.

Advantage slayers.

Buffy was wheezing when the smoke finally cleared, nursing her elbow against her side, blonde hair and light skin streaked with crimson. Kennedy was wired from the fight, ready to take on another wave, but the elder slayer was tired. The pneumonia was exacting a heavy toll on her body. Buffy held her blade to the dreamcatcher's throat, a cautionary move, as he had yet to show any signs of resistance, unconscious in a puddle of his own fluids. Kennedy gagged a little as she approached. The bullet had entered through his temple and exited through his mandible, cracking his skull and blasting away a large, gooey chunk of steaming brain matter.

"Gross."

Buffy, who looked like some kind of wild animal, smeared with blood and dirt, bared a grin that would raise hackles. "Totally."

Giles' disembodied voice echoed in their ears. "_All_ _clear_."

Buffy glanced toward a rooftop across the street. "What happened to the Russian guys?"

"_You won't be hearing from them again. Their debts have been repaid_."

"Okaaaay…"

Kennedy snorted and muted her microphone. "When did he get all mysterious and creepy on us?"

The blonde shook her head. "I think the bigger question is what did he do with that stick up his butt?"

"Seriously." Kennedy laughed, and gave her a curious look.

"What?"

"Nothing," she brushed some loose hair out of her eyes, "it just sounds like something Faith would say."

Giles spoke up again. "_I've just heard from Dawn. Faith's condition has worsened, unfortunately_. _I'll go retrieve the car. Just give me the signal when you are ready to go_."

Buffy paled and fell silent.

Willow and Noa emerged behind them moments later, glancing around warily at the scattered piles of ash. If Noa was disgusted by the organic matter dripping off Buffy's clothes, Willow appeared totally unfazed. She crouched down in the snow and removed two mason jars from her knapsack.

"Let's get this over with." She thrust a jar at her girlfriend. "One for you, darling."

Buffy coughed a little, struggling to keep her katana steady against the dreamcatcher's neck. "Why isn't he fighting back?"

"He's not a real demon," Willow replied calmly, moving cautiously toward the body. "He's just a human with a demonic essence bonded to him. It's an unnatural union. It may have extended his life and altered his features, but he's ostensibly mortal." She bent down, pressing two fingers against the sticky, red skin above his pulse point. "I've cast a spell to prevent the demon's essence from vacating Christopher's body. It's the only thing keeping him alive right now."

Kennedy whistled to herself. "Man, my girlfriend is _smart_."

"Thanks, babe." Willow's devilish smile faded as she turned back to the others. "We've gotta hurry. This will be easier if his heart is still pumping."

The snow came down harder as they propped the body against the side of the warehouse, slit both wrists, and drained as much blood as they could into the empty mason jars. It was a grisly task. Even Buffy, who had been desensitized to violence and gore at a young age, struggled to keep her gag reflex under control. Only Willow seemed unperturbed, kneeling quietly in the snow over a block of amethyst. Noa had her back turned to the slayers, still a bit green in the face, muttering incantations. The block seemed to shimmer in the air, humming, glowing faintly, and Buffy's eyes were drawn to it, as though it possessed a gravitational pull of its own, something sinister coaxing her in.

"Try not to look at it." Willow's voice startled her out of a trance. "It's cursed."

The slayer shook herself. "Thanks"

Buffy's thoughts slowed as her heart rate steadied. Weariness draped itself around her shoulders like a heavy cloak, and as she sealed the warm jar, fingers fumbling with the duct tape she was applying around the lid, her mind drifted away.

A cool, gloved hand pressed against her cheek.

"It's okay, Buffy."

"Huh?"

She glanced up and winced when she saw the concern in Willow's earthy, green eyes. "You're crying."

"I…" Buffy reached for her face, forgetting momentarily that she was wearing gloves as well. "Oh." She blinked in surprise.

Willow pried the jar from her hand and stowed it away. "You're exhausted. Let us do the rest."

"No, I want to help."

"We'll need your strength once we get back to the house."

Kennedy scooped up the limp, mangled body and carried it to a dumpster several feet away. "You wanna help? Give me a hand, Buff."

Buffy didn't have the wherewithal to dry her tears as she staggered to her feet. The wild feelings were coming, a tsunami rolling into shore, clouds looming on the horizon. She absolutely had to keep busy until the job was done. Nothing good would come of her falling apart now. She turned with purpose toward the dumpster, hoisting the lid so that Kennedy could toss the body in amongst the trash. Deciding to stow her concern away for later, Willow lifted the amethyst block from its resting place on the pavement and stroked the edges lightly with her fingertips, whispering soft, soothing words as it's core began to glow. Noa joined in moments later, extending one hand over the body, placing the other firmly on the stone. Presently, the dreamcatcher's body began to glow, and a pale, rosy aura traveled up Noa's arm until it had completely engulfed her, and then began to drain into the stone.

"Ah," the Spaniard hissed through her teeth, "joder que duele!"

"Casi terminado," Willow muttered, licking her lips. "Un minuto más. And...done."

Noa released the stone, slumped against the edge of the dumpster, and wiped her brow. "Que cabrón."

Willow wrapped the stone in a heavy sheet and stuffed it into her bag. "That's one hell god who won't be bothering anyone for a while."

Kennedy brushed a light accumulation of snow off her duffel bag and slung it over her shoulder. She moved to stand next to Willow, reaching out instinctively to take her girlfriend's hand.

"What are you gonna do with that thing?"

"Not sure yet." Willow heaved a weary sigh. "We'll cross that bridge when we come to it."

Kennedy hooked a thumb at the dumpster. "What about the dead guy? Do we just leave him here?"

"Kind of." The red witch pulled a white bottle from her bag. "I brought lighter fluid."

"You think of everything," Kennedy kissed Willow on the nose.

"Giles is waiting for us around the front of the building," Noa informed them, closing her phone with a snap. "We have an escape route."

"Alright, let's get this over with."

Buffy's eyes strayed toward the drained, motionless corpse. "Will, do you mind if I do the honors?"

Willow solemnly offered up the bottle of lighter fluid, along with a book of matches. Snowflakes swirled around her cherry red hair, and her expression was earnest, as though she were literally willing Buffy to find closure in this, to burn away the lingering traces of evil in his corpse.

"Thanks, Will."

The girls smiled wearily at each other for a moment.

At last, Willow nodded at the dumpster. "Light 'em up."


	8. Awake

_I spent quite a long time trying to get this chapter right, and in the process I accidentally made it much longer than the others. Oh, well. _

_Thanks for reading. _

_-A Rex_

* * *

><p><strong>8. Awake<strong>

The skyscrapers downtown were shrouded in a patchy blanket of thick mist, blunt spires punching up into the dreary April rain clouds. She didn't mind the weather today, though. It matched her mood. 13 years old, skinny as a rail, with a padded bra and black eyeliner, Faith leaned up against the side of a Dunkin' Donuts in Charlestown admiring her brand new high tops. Cold rain fell steadily, dripping off the metal awning onto the porch, drenching the slushy city streets. She bit off a chunk of her maple bar and examined her nails, clipped short, polish chipping already. If she'd had any money she would've bought the expensive stuff, the stuff she'd gotten caught lifting from the grocery store twice already. The manager called the cops when he saw her coming now, greasy, balding, old pervert. Whatever. Faith had other means of getting what she wanted. If her mother had taught her anything it was that boyfriends were very good for certain things, and it wasn't difficult to negotiate an exchange of services if you dropped the right buzzwords.

She had reached the end of her donut. Faith shoved the rest in her mouth and crumpled the sticky wax paper into a ball, dropping it carelessly on the sidewalk at her feet. She rubbed her hands clean on her jeans and shoved them into her coat pockets. The wind was a little less arctic now with something in her stomach. Brendon was good about feeding her. She actually liked Brendon, even if he wasn't the brightest bulb in the bunch. He had a job, and he bought her things, like cigarettes or soda, or just a burger sometimes when there was nothing at home to eat. He always gave her free donuts when she dropped by to see him at work, and he didn't ask questions. That was important. Boys that asked too many questions were trouble. Faith didn't like to share, didn't see why she should. Her business was her own, plain and simple, and it had nothing to do with Brendon or anybody else. Fuck 'em.

She scuffed her shoes on the pavement, and peeked through the window over her shoulder. Brendon caught her gaze behind the display case, rolling his eyes at the woman he was helping. She looked like a Jersey transplant in a gaudy white marshmallow coat with fake fur trim, ponytail slicked back tight, bad highlights, big hoop earrings, French-manicured claws, and an expensive Coach purse. She was dressed up trash. Faith knew the type. Suck the right dick, poke the right condom, and they were set for 18 years. One little bundle of joy wrapped in a paycheck. She smirked when the lady caught Brendon staring, snapping her fingers at him like hired help. Yeah, she was a class act. A kid wandered into a view, bundled up in a blue coat and and Bruins hat, clutching a chocolate donut like it was made of gold. He couldn't have been more than eight, just chewed on his pastry and stared at the floor while his mother reamed Brendon out at the register. Faith turned away. Her mouth had grown acidic and sour, and she popped a stick of gum in her mouth, preparing for the inevitable kiss of greeting, the sugary "hey, babe", the salacious smile.

Suddenly the door swung open and the lady came storming out, ponytail whipping back and forth, heels clicking and clacking against the walk. She had her kid by the arm, half leading, half dragging him into the parking lot, and she was yelling about something. Faith cringed, shoulders hunching forward, slumping into herself. Fucking Jersey trash with their fucking attitudes thinking anyone gives a shit what they're on about. She rolled her eyes and was just beginning to turn away when the boy muttering something, and his mother reared back, red lips curled, baring bleached, white teeth.

"What did I just tell you?" the woman barked, raising her arm.

Neither Faith nor the boy had time to react. She brought her hand down and slapped the kid hard across the face. Faith nearly gasped aloud. She felt it in her chest, the sudden impact behind her ribs, the exhalation, and resulting shock wave of adrenalin flowing into into her limbs. A resounding 'smack' echoed in the parking lot. The boy stumbled and nearly lost his footing, wet eyes running and wicked red mark smarting on his cheek. He glanced furtively in Faith's direction, and jerked away when their shocked eyes met. Her jaw twitched.

His mother, meanwhile, was either unaware or unaffected by Faith's presence as she snatched her son by the arm and shook him. "If you ask me again, you'll really be sorry you opened your ugly little mouth."

Blood pounded in Faith's ears, and she barely had time to think as she stepped away from the wall. "Hey, lady."

The woman halted mid rant and glanced up to see who had interrupted her. "What?"

Faith pointed at the boy, and balled her fists. "That's child abuse, ya know."

"Who the fuck are you?" She gave Faith a lazy once over, a single, sharp eyebrow arched. "Why don't you mind your own fucking business?"

"You should stop beating up little kids," Faith retorted, drawing herself up to her full height, squaring her shoulders. "It's pathetic."

The woman was indignant, but not cowed. She went on the offensive immediately, aiming a sharp, accusatory finger squarely at Faith's chest. Her heavily powdered cheeks were flushed red, voice rising to a shrill pitch as she fired back.

"Don't you tell me how to raise my son, you skinny little bitch."

"How 'bout you don't hit your kids, ya fat slut."

The woman's nostrils flared and for a moment she looked like an angry horse ready to trample Faith into the ground. She stepped forward, arm twitching, and then seemed to think better of it. Her son, meanwhile, had tucked himself behind her legs, trying to make himself as small as possible. The kid looked like he wanted to dissolve into the pavement.

"Whatever," the lady huffed, turning away, "I don't have time to argue with grade schoolers. Marco!" She barked at the poor kid, pushing him toward the parking lot. "Let's go!"

Faith growled. This bitch was unbelievable. She was seeing red, and before she could stop herself she was acting on it. She launched off her toes, took a couple quick steps, and walloped the lady across the face with the palm of her hand. That was definitely going to bruise. The woman stumbled and screeched, releasing the kid from her claws as she tottered around on her heels. She clutched at her nose and screamed curses through her fingers. It was perfect, absolutely picture perfect. Faith laughed and dodged a couple of desperate swipes.

"Hurts, yeah? I bet it freaking does! That's what it feels like to get smacked around by dumb bitches like you!" Faith turned to the boy in the blue coat who was standing stock still in an empty parking space, jaw slack, eyes the size of quarters. "Don't let her, or anybody else treat ya like that, got it? Ya gotta look out for yourself."

"Faith! What the hell?" Brendon burst through the doors of the Dunkin' Donuts with his supervisor on his heels.

He whipped off his uniform hat revealing a shock of dyed, jet black hair. Long bangs flopped across his brow, framing baby blue eyes and the metal ring in his nose. He wasn't shocked, knowing her attitude and her rap sheet fairly well by now. He only seemed annoyed as he intercepted her, steering her back toward the dumpsters. His hapless supervisor, a chubby man in his late twenties was taking the full brunt of the Barbie slut's rage behind them, who still screamed obscenities at Faith over his shoulder with every other breath.

"The hell is this about?" Brendon growled, swiping a lock of hair out of his eyes.

"She was smackin' her kid around." Faith hooked her fingers in his studded belt and tugged his closer. "Yellin' at 'im and stuff."

The belt trick usually worked. Perhaps she hadn't sold it with as much conviction today. Her boyfriend grumbled and pulled her toward his car, a faded blue Mustang with a custom spoiler that his brother's friend had added for cheap.

"Ya can't just hit someone like that for no reason."

"It wasn't no reason!" Faith retorted, shrugging off his hand. "She was hitting her kid! S'not like I'm just gonna stand around and let her keep doin' it!"

"Yeah, well ya should've."

"Who's side are you on here?"

"Yours! I just…" Brendon wrestled his keys from his sweatshirt pocket and unlocked the driver side door. "You need to learn to mind your own business. You'll get in trouble."

"I'm already in trouble."

"Faith."

"I don't need this crap from you. I was jus' trying to do something right for once, and now you're tellin' me I was outta line."

Brendon rubbed the back of his neck, looking grumpy and conflicted. "I mean, ya did a good thing, but the cops don't see it that way do they?"

"The cops don't care about what's right."

"Yeah, yeah." He glanced over his shoulder. "Just...just get in the car before that bitch decides to press charges."

"Fine."

"Faith."

She glanced up from the pavement. "What?"

"Faith?"

She blinked to clear her vision, but it didn't seem to have any effect. The world appeared suddenly less stable than it had a moment ago. The colors were bland, washed out, growing faint. She tried to back away, but her muscles were sluggish, and the air thickened until it felt like porridge. Suffocating, claustrophobic.

"Faith, come back." Brendon's feature's were blurry. When his mouth moved the words seemed to travel a very long distance before they reached her ears.

"Faith…"

She reached out to take hold of something, but her fingers closed on air. The sensation of weightlessness returned, followed swiftly by overwhelming nausea, dizziness, a fuzzy ringing in her ears, and then, nothing.

Just darkness.

The darkness stayed for some time.

Presently, she became aware of a new sensation, a slight pressure on her forehead, so feathery and gentle that it felt like the brush of a bird's wing. Faith twitched, and the pressure increased, until it was no longer so soft. Now warm and sturdy, a scouring material that was simultaneously calming and invasive. Her eyelids fluttered. The tips of her fingers flexed and curled.

"She's coming around."

The feeling was returning to her limbs. Her skin prickled, almost painfully, and her extremities buzzed. She was damp and sticky, lying against something hard, something cold, smooth, and unyielding. Faith's lips parted and a sickly moan bubbled up from her chest. Fresh air rushed over her tongue and she became aware of the acrid taste in her mouth, bitter and sour, how her throat was raw, and it hurt to swallow. Everything hurt. Everything ached, and as the darkness yielded to a soft yellow light, a whimper escaped her.

Voices swirled around her head, and she picked out a few bits and pieces, gradually able to grasp and comprehend full sentences. They were talking about her. What were they saying? Why so hushed, why so worried?

"She's got a little more color in her cheeks, hasn't she?"

"Maybe a little."

"Grab the water. There, on the counter."

The rim of a glass was held to her lips, and her head tipped back by some phantom hand, unincorporated, unidentified in her daze. Cold water trickled down her throat, and she coughed and sputtered at first, before returning to drink more.

Crowded together in the tight space around the porcelain tub, Buffy, Willow, and Giles heaved a collective sigh of relief. It was the first sign they'd had in over four hours that the witch's antivenom was working. Buffy pulled the glass away from Faith's lips, setting it aside on the tile floor, before returning to adjust the damp washcloth on the slayer's head.

"I really thought I was gonna lose her." The witch's voice was raspy, brittle. "I may have...dug a little too deep...trying to pull her back."

Willow dropped onto the toilet lid, shoulders hunched, limp and boneless, as though all the power had gone out of her. She had been too harried to bother with the blood on her hands, and now, in her exhaustion, couldn't be bothered to wash it off. The edges of her fingernails, even her cuticles, were stained an ugly, rusted brown. Her eyes traveled down over her knuckles, as slowly, deliberately, she flipped her palms up to reveal dark veins slithering under the alabaster skin stretched over her wrists. Buffy noticed first, looking just as ragged, if not more so, in muddy black clothes, grimey and blood-smeared like the good old days in Sunnydale, when they were all stretched thin, before the end of times. Her hazel gaze penetrated deep, probed for signs that the red witch had herself under control..

"Your eyes, Will."

"Buffy…I..." The redhead shuddered all over.

Giles took note of the exchange, the shift of energy in the room. He stepped back, retreating to the doorway to give them space. Buffy climbed to her feet and crossed the tiny bathroom in a single step, taking Willow's chin in her hand, turning it up to reveal a pinched expression and hooded, black eyes.

"I-I'm sorry. I promised it wouldn't h-happen again."

"It was a promise you could never keep."

Willow sobbed.

"We pushed you to this point. I asked you to do this."

"I s-should b-be able to do this!" Willow choked, bit down hard until her body quaked, absorbing the sobs like small explosions of uncontainable emotion. "I s-s-should..."

Buffy pulled the redhead's face into her stomach, wrapped her arms defensively around Willow's shoulders, and turned to Giles. "She needs Kennedy."

To say that the watcher was alarmed would be an understatement, though he concealed it well. He pushed his glasses further up the bridge of his nose and frowned at her.

"Does this happen often?"

"No."

"I know that I've been..." he paused, prevaricating a bit between words, "I know I've been gone for a while, what with the Organization's duties pulling me in a million different directions, but I would hate for you to keep something like this from me just to spare me the added anxiety."

Buffy pursed her lips, reluctant to divulge details that would most certainly be taken out of context without due explanation. "She's been under a lot of stress lately. She's just exhausted. She needs rest. She needs Kennedy."

Never mind that she, Buffy, with her pneumonia and a mild case of post-traumatic stress disorder, was the primary source of that stress. That conversation could wait.

"You sure? You'd tell me if-"

"Yes."

"Right then."

The watcher hastened to his errand with a stiff nod, and Buffy held her friend tighter, coaxing her back from the edge. It was surprisingly easy to be the pillar of strength, with Faith passed out in the bathtub, Dawn asleep on the couch with tears drying on her face, and Willow potentially succumbing to a disastrous bout of evil witch fu. It wasn't that she didn't hurt. That wasn't it at all. On the contrary, Buffy's whole body burned and bled, sore muscles and fresh bruises and a knot of pain rooted deep in her chest that was always throbbing, pounding, choking. She was such an ugly mess, had been for such an uncharacteristically long time, that it felt nice not to be the only one.

Was that sick?

"Babe?" Kennedy's voice sounded from the hallway, and the young slayer burst into the tiny bathroom like a bull released from its cage. "Babe, talk to me."

She all but shoved Buffy aside, tugging Willow off the toilet, and lifting her up, bridal style, into her arms. Dark veins bulged under the witch's skin. Inky black eyes peered back into Kennedy's warm, brown ones, desperate and gentle, searching for recognition.

"Babe? Willow?" She kissed her girlfriend's forehead, and her voice was strong and forceful even as she struggled to keep it steady. "I love you." She punctuated this statement with another kiss. "I love you more than Paris." She pressed her lips against a clammy temple. "God, I love you more than slaying."

Buffy quirked a brow.

"It's true, you know." She blushed furiously, holding onto Willow's dark gaze as though it were the last lifeline in a flood. "You're my whole world, Willow Rosenberg. I want to marry you and raise your ginger babies, and I can't do that if you turn evil again and kill us all, so you have to come back to me, okay?"

Buffy's mouth fell open.

"Give me a sign, babe," Kennedy continued earnestly. "Don't leave me hanging."

Willow seemed to convulse all over, and it terrified both slayers for a heart-stopping second, but when it ceased all of the black had yielded to green, and a tearful smile bloomed across Willow's damp, weary, beautiful face.

"Is that a...proposal?"

Kennedy heaved an enormous sigh of relief and returned her girlfriend's watery smile with an exasperated grin of her own. "Jesus, yes. It's a freaking proposal."

Willow laughed, and then sobbed, and then she was choking out her answer, repeating it again and again like a holy oath. "Yes, yes, yes...I'll marry you. Yes!"

They kissed until their lungs demanded respite, and continued to do so until a comically wide-eyed Buffy cleared her throat.

Kennedy detached herself long enough to toss the blonde a giddy smile, then turned back to her fiance. "Shall we discuss this upstairs?"

Willow nodded furiously, and Kennedy nearly bounded from the bathroom with her fiance in her arms, leaving Buffy alone, bewildered, trying to make sense of the scene she had just witnessed.

"Well, that was sudden."

"Maybe...if you're...blind." She whirled on the spot and found Faith, blinking in the bathtub, a lazy smile resting on her lips. "Hey, B."

"You're awake," Buffy breathed.

"Five by five."

The blonde slayer sank to her knees in front of the tub, and it was the closest she had ever felt to God, to the Powers, to something holy and ethereal and benevolent and so far above the limits of her cognition that she had no choice but to gasp her thanks.

"Oh, thank you, Jesus." She pressed her forehead against cool porcelain, overcome with relief. "Thank you, God, Buddha, Zeus, whoever is up there listening right now, thank you!"

"The hell, B?" A moist, sticky hand gripped hers.

Buffy shuddered. "You almost died, idiot."

"Hm," the brunette grunted. "Wouldn't be...the first time."

"Oh my god!" Buffy pinned Faith with furious, bloodshot eyes. "For once in your stupid life could you just shut up and let me have this?!"

Faith grimaced. "You already...have everything, B."

The fire in Buffy's eyes flickered and went out. "What?"

"You heard me."

A flash of understanding passed between them, and Buffy blushed to the tips of her ears. "Everything?" She bit her lip. "Like, _everything_ everything? Are we talking about what I think we're talking about? Because...wow."

Faith coughed, cleared her throat, and glanced off to the side. "Did I stutter?"

Buffy was stunned, completely speechless for almost 30 seconds, eyes frozen, locked on the flush of red creeping up Faith's neck. "How long?" she gasped.

The brunette shrugged, almost casually, but not quite. It looked the way an embarrassed kid might shrug off a question, act tough, avoid the eyes, try to seem disinterested when the interest was so painfully clear that it could not possibly be missed.

"I dunno." She chewed on the inside of her cheek for a bit, and Buffy waited with bated breath for another morsel of information to fall from those chapped lips. "Since...LA."

"LA?" Well, that was certainly not the answer Buffy had been expecting. "Why LA? What happened in LA?"

Faith shifted in the tub until she was as far away from the blonde as possible, arms folded instinctively across her chest. "You...told me you'd kill me...if I tried to apologize."

"What?"

Buffy blinked. So, that was before the First, in LA after the body swap, before Faith went to prison. That was...years ago. Holy shit.

"That long ago?"

Faith said nothing.

"I don't...why? I threatened to kill you and...?" Buffy couldn't seem to finish a sentence. "I don't get it."

"There's nothing to get, B."

"Like hell there isn't."

Faith closed her eyes and sighed. "I was...so jealous, like crazy fucking bitter. I did all this shit trying to get your attention. And it worked." She scoffed at herself, mirthlessly. "I got your undivided attention for a whole minute, and you know what I saw in your eyes?"

Buffy winced.

"Yeah. Hate."

"I'm sorry."

"Don't be. I earned it." Faith's head lolled to the side, away from Buffy. "Seems pretty weird, I bet. I spent all this time trying to get back at you. Trying to best you. Trying to take shit from you. In the end it was like I was this little kid, knocking things off the table, trying to get Ma's attention."

A pang of indescribable sadness sliced through Buffy's heart. She didn't know much about the younger slayer's childhood, but she knew enough.

"I spent all this time in prison thinking about you, like, trying to figure out why I craved your attention so badly. When I got fed up with that I decided, you know, fuck it. Who gives a shit what she thinks about me? So, then I spent all this time thinking about how I didn't care what you thought, and just, _fuck_." Faith's chin quivered a bit. "No matter what it was always about you, B. It just clicked one day, why it mattered so much. I was in the yard or something, lifting weights, and I just...like a lightning bolt, I just…"

"Cried?" Buffy offered, and Faith appeared skittish, annoyed, and relieved all at once.

"Yeah," she agreed finally, grudgingly. "Don't tell anyone."

Buffy reached into the tub and grabbed Faith by the collar of her stained, grey sweatshirt. She dragged the girl closer, until she could smell the sweat drying on her skin, and pressed her lips very gently against Faith's temple. The brunette's sharp intake of breath sent an electric thrill racing through Buffy's veins.

"B?"

Buffy drew back a little and very tenderly brushed the loose hair out of Faith's eyes. "I was furious when you left. It was so easy to hate you. You made it easy." Her hand strayed south along the edge of Faith's jaw, thumb coming to rest on the brunette's bottom lip. "I was always hoping that you would get your shit together so I could rely on you more. I thought it would be really nice to maybe lean on someone else for a change, but then just when it was starting seem like you might not freak out again, you took off for Stockholm."

"I...I couldn't deal. I had to get out."

"It makes more sense now."

"So, why me, though?" Faith's chest rose and fell a little quicker. "Why not rely on Kennedy or the others?"

Buffy increased the pressure of her thumb on Faith's bottom lip, dipping in further until she encountered moisture. "Because they weren't the ones I wanted."

Recognition, surprise, and relief were all present in Faith's expression as Buffy closed the gap between them, bringing their mouths together, groaning as their lips finally connected. Faith gasped, and trembled, and when the shock subsided, her own fingers crept up and curled into Buffy's jacket. She pulled until Buffy was nearly falling into the tub, and she felt at least a little bit anchored, and a little less like she was hallucinating. Wild feelings bubbled up from the deep places inside her, raw, and bare. She had given herself away. Her cards were on the table, scattered, and Buffy held the aces. She was helpless, she was flying, she was caving in on herself like a dying star, a cosmic explosion of sound and fury. Years of agony began to thaw, grief released from an icy tomb, and Faith kissed Buffy back with everything she had, welding their mouths together, biting down, choking on fragments of words meant to express emotions that had no names.

Faith was wrecked.

She knew it.

"Holy shit, Buffy." She pushed the blonde away just as suddenly as she had pulled her in, gasping for breath. "Fuck."

Buffy pressed her fingertips to her lips, reverently. Her gaze was wide, and shocked, but Faith found no ambivalence there.

"Are you real?" the brunette asked, pleaded.

"Yes," Buffy breathed.

"I don't think I couldn't handle it if you weren't."

"I think…" Buffy paused just briefly to organize her thoughts. "I think I should've done that sooner."

"Yeah," Faith murmured, awestruck, "way sooner."

"Should we maybe…" Buffy trailed off and glanced over her shoulder at the door, still hanging ajar. "I was gonna say 'get out of these clothes', but," she looked down at the front her black jacket, now a mottled, crusty brown, "I'm sort of disgusting."

"I haven't showered in days," Faith admitted, wrinkling her nose. "Kinda hard to shower when you're chained up and talkin' to yourself."

Buffy snorted. "I guess we're both gross, huh?"

"Jacob Maclin _did _tell me I had cooties in the second grade." Faith grinned, and Buffy rolled her eyes. "He wasn't wrong."

"Yes, he was," the blonde countered, sighing softly. "I don't think it matters how often you shower, Faith. You're always beautiful."

Faith's jaw went slack. "What?"

"Oh, did I say that out loud?" Buffy cocked her head to the side and laughed. "You know, for the longest time I couldn't decide whether I was envious or jealous."

She bit her lip, and Faith just watched, entranced, now that she was free to stare without rebuke. Buffy rose gracefully to her feet and shut the bathroom door, deliberately flipping the lock.

"They're gonna ask questions," Faith said quietly, growing nervous.

The other slayer knelt down over the tub and slid her arms under Faith's torso. "Hold still."

"I can stand, B."

"I said 'hold still', _F_."

With only a bit of extra grumbling, Faith allowed Buffy to lift her up out of the tub and set her gently on the edge of the bathroom counter.

The blonde brandished a grubby finger and poked her square in the chest. "Stay."

And Faith stayed. She was more than happy to stay, and it scared her to think about that, how much she was willing to give with no promise of return. It was a gamble, the greatest gamble she had ever taken, but If it meant she got to kiss those lips, Faith wanted Buffy to boss her around for the rest of her life.

"We should probably talk," Buffy said, as she turned the hot water knob. "That would be like, the smart thing to do."

"Let's not," Faith replied, voice low and husky, gripping the edge of the marble countertop for support.

Buffy ran her fingers under the faucet, and adjusted the knob. "We might regret it."

Faith's heart hammered in her chest. She watched Buffy straighten up and draw out the shower curtain until it obscured the porcelain tub, and when she licked her lips she found them dry. The blonde reached down for the little, metal switch, and the familiar stutter of the showerhead sputtering to life filled the room.

"We're not good at talking, B. We'll just fuck shit up again."

"I know, but…"

Buffy stared down at her hands for a moment, eyes sweeping across one, and then the other, and she studied them, the crescent rings of dirt and dried blood beneath her fingernails, the calices on her palms from the friction of a thousand rough stakes. Then her green eyes shimmered, shifted. She raised her head. Her gaze traveled up the length of Faith's body, staked a claim, and branded what was now hers, what had always been hers to claim, no matter how vehemently Faith had denied it. Buffy reached down and hooked her fingers in the hem of her grubby black pullover, and before Faith had realized what was happening, Buffy was stripping it off. She picked up momentum. The next layer, a crew neck sweatshirt, came off faster, and then the henley, and then the tight under armour shirt clinging to her skin, until she stood before Faith in just a training bra and pants.

"Jesus…" Faith muttered, and allowed her eyes to wander.

Buffy was covered in scars and bruises, mottled purple, faded yellow, and yet was still so stunning, her beauty untouched, unblemished by any of this evil. She was thinner than Faith remembered from all that time ago, but it was impossible to say whether her imagination had embellished a few choice details, or whether the years had simply been unkind. Her ribs protruded a little bit more. Her hips seemed a bit sharper. She had gained more muscle, and this was most obvious in her abdomen and her arms, which rippled as she moved. Faith licked her lips, and Buffy grew momentarily bashful. She balled her hands into fists and squirmed.

"I've been sick for a while," she said, by way of explanation.

Faith shook her head. "You're gorgeous."

Buffy blushed, and the steam billowed around her body, and she looked like a goddess, a warrior goddess, sliding out of her pants, and leggings, and a pair of very flattering, powder-pink briefs. Faith's fingers throbbed so hard it hurt, but she waited patiently, and she kept her hands to herself.

When Buffy had finished with herself, stark naked and barefoot on the damp tiles, tangled blonde hair spilling over her shoulders, Faith could hardly breathe. Green eyes turned on her and fixed her there with such steel that it was impossible to hide the shivers. So exposed. So powerful. Buffy was totally in control of herself as she reached out and seized the front of Faith's sweatshirt.

"Let's get you out of these," she said.

"You grew your hair out," Faith replied.

A non-sequitur. Too difficult to string thoughts together with her eyes on Buffy's chest, creeping south. Steady now. Don't lose it. Ah, too late. As steam filled the bathroom, something else filled the cavity in Faith's chest. Buffy was up against her, thin leggings and a pullover the only things that separated them. The blonde slayer guided her off the counter and back onto her own two feet. Little fingers tugged and pulled and lifted, and off came the sweatshirt, over her head and on the cold floor. Next, the shirt, soaked through with sweat. Buffy hooked her thumbs under the elastic band on Faith's training bra, rolled it up and peeled it off. The urge to cover herself was sudden and strong, but Buffy was on the move again. She dropped to her knees, nose inches from Faith's navel, and looked up at her through long lashes. Faith's stomach dropped, all fears forgotten. Her limbs throbbed and ached. Her nerve endings burned. It was as pleasurable as it was painful. It left her gasping.

Buffy waited for a sign, and, at length, Faith gave it. She nodded once, a curt, stiff jerk of the head, and then her leggings were gone, rolled down to her ankles, socks and all. Buffy made fast work of Faith's black thong, and the brunette stepped out of the whole mess, kicking them aside. Then Buffy grabbed her hips and pulled her closer. She pushed her nose up against Faith's abdomen and inhaled.

"You smell gross." Buffy smiled, lips brushing bare skin.

Faith was so flustered she could hardly think. "Sorry."

Buffy's smile grew. "No, I'm a creep. I like it."

She climbed to her feet, hugged Faith around the middle, and walked them both toward the shower. And Faith just moaned, with their bodies pressed together, and sticky skin sliding, then catching, like tension and release. She didn't even realize that Buffy's knees were shaking when the hot water hit their bodies, cascaded over their shoulders, soaked their hair. She didn't even realize she was gasping when Buffy raked her nails down her back. Too much, too fast. Overstimulation, like a finger in an electrical socket. They shivered and shuddered together until their skin was flushed red from the heat, until someone was brave enough to seek out the other's lips. There was no other feeling like it, two lubricated bodies sliding past each other. Intoxicating, dizzying, building to a powerful and terrifying apex

But it didn't progress.

Just as quickly as the tension mounted, it faded, and all that was left was exhaustion, frayed nerves, and mutual relief. Buffy clung to Faith, arms looped around her waist, hands hooked up over her shoulders, nose tickling her collar. So small, still, even after all these years. The one girl in all the world, long since in good company, seemed always to move with an air of solitude around her. The loneliness was palpable. Faith could taste it on her tongue, bitter, sour, acrid. A lump rose in her throat, like a stone, all her regrets rolled up and fired into an iron lump that she could never quite swallow. Not anymore. Not for years.

Old memories rose to the surface as Buffy cried on her shoulder, as Faith held her fast. The first spring in Stockholm, the boys, the men, with light eyes and fair hair and enigmatic grins. One after the other, through France, through Spain, through the desperately cold Russian winter, in the sweltering Colombian heat. During that four year absence, each destination was more exotic than the last. Images flickered behind her eyes, of herself, crouched up high on a wet tree bough in the Laotian jungle, flicking bugs off her arm, cursing mosquitos as she spied on some demon or another, thinking about not thinking about Buffy. Never thinking about Buffy. Of a rust-stained bathtub in Taipei, and the apartment with the failing air conditioning unit. The most miserable summer she had ever spent with herself, alone in a city of millions, alone in a room of friends and colleagues, alone in a strip club with a bottle of pills and a shot of gin and the hottest girl the owner could throw at her. Still not thinking about Cleveland. Still not thinking about blonde hair, furious green eyes, pinched, angry lips. No, just touching. Just hands, just lips, just traitorous, undulating hips, and the city lights fading into a haze. She couldn't count anymore. How many shots and pills to get a slayer fucked up? How many nights unaccounted for, lost in the blur? Mornings that came too soon, too violently. Months without seeing the sun. Months trying to kick a habit.

She had stayed in Asia for two years, and what of it? Shredding her enemies, churning through pretty girls and handsome boys, drugs and booze, and assignments too dangerous for the newbies to take. What of it? It was time wasted. Years wasted, and all the loneliness of it was cast in so stark a light as she stood there, naked, pressed against the woman she loved.

Faith clutched Buffy tighter to her and buckled under the spray of hot water, under the weight of a sob that been building since the moment she had first stepped off the bus in Sunnydale, California.

"I'm s-sorry…"

Buffy raised her head. Her eyes were red and swollen, but tender. "It's okay."

"It's not okay."

"It wasn't, but it is now."

Faith's knees gave way, and she slid down Buffy's front, fingers trailing along her abdomen and her thighs until they landed on bruised shins. She anchored herself there, forehead pressed against Buffy's knees, hands gripping her ankles, and sobbed.

"Faith." Buffy slid down to join her. "Faith, look at me."

"I c-can't."

"Faith-"

"I f-fucking c-c-can't, B."

"Just _look _at me, damnit!"

"What, I-?" Faith forced herself to meet Buffy's gaze, though her shoulders wouldn't stop shaking, and her eyes still watered. "B…"

Buffy reached out and took Faith's head firmly in her hands. "I love you."

The brunette seemed to shudder all over. Her eyelids fluttered, and she rolled her shoulders.

"...Are you okay?"

"Yeah, I just…" Faith leaned forward and captured Buffy's lips in a swift kiss. "I'm just really, really tired." She wiped her eyes and offered a weak smile. "But...I love you, too."

Buffy giggled.

"What's so funny."

"I dunno." She brushed her fingers along the top of Faith's thigh. "Just like...I guess we're gay now, huh?"

"Whaddaya mean 'now'?" Faith scoffed. When Buffy began to protest she just rolled her eyes and sniffled some more. "You act like nobody knows about Satsu."

"Sat...shit."

"Yeah, everybody knows about Satsu."

"When you say 'everybody'..."

Faith gave her a look.

"Shit." Buffy covered her face, and Faith laughed.

A curt knock on the bathroom door startled them both out of their skin and sent them flying apart, even behind the protective barrier of an opaque, plastic curtain. Faith knocked over a shampoo bottle with her elbow as a male voice filtered through the old wood.

"I don't know what you two are doing in there, and I don't much care at this point, but we haven't got unlimited hot water, and some of us would like to shower after last night's adventure!"

Buffy blushed a deep crimson, and whispered furtively, "Oh god, Giles. He gets really cranky when we use up the hot water." She craned her neck toward the door and shouted a quick, "Kay!" before clambering up and pulling Faith to her feet.

Faith groaned. "Did we just get caught in the act?"

"Oh, totally." Buffy seemed altogether too cheerful as she reached for the soap. "Speaking of which, I'm guessing everyone on the planet will hear about this, too?"

"Yeah, I mean, you're related to Dawn."

"Right. How could I forget."

"You'd like, better get used to being 'Buffy the lesbian vampire slayer'."

Buffy snorted. "I can see it in lights." She uncapped a blue bottle, lathered up her hands, and began to rub lavender body wash into the brunette's arms and shoulders. "I can't wait to have that conversation with everyone in the slayer organization, including my friends and the man who is basically my only remaining parental figure."

"We'll call it, 'a journey of vampire slaying and sexual self-discovery'."

"Can't wait." Buffy groaned. "Let's just get cleaned up and go to bed. I'm exhausted. We can make rainbow friendship bracelets in the morning."

"It is morning, isn't it?"

Buffy reached for more soap and started on Faith's chest area, which was more or less completely distracting. "Shut up and enjoy the spa treatment."

Even if she could find the will to speak, Faith had no comeback for that.

* * *

><p><em>AN: Thanks again to my glorious followers. You are all stars. _


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